by Cathryn Hein
She kept her voice businesslike. ‘No. Not with a fork.’
La Tasse rested in front of her, nestled in its foam cocoon. Pottery was not her area. She had no skill or experience in restoration, but she had spent two months’ worth of evenings in her dull hotel room reading all she could find on the subject. The University of Aix-Marseille, with its well-funded and regarded antiquities department, had an extensive collection of books and papers, and the faculty had a number of experts she could consult should the need arise.
Deep down she knew Nicholas Mansfield was the real man for the job. He was the acknowledged leader in this field, but Olivia knew from personal experience he was also a sanctimonious prat of the highest order. One intolerable evening spent in his loud-mouthed presence at an academic soiree was enough for her to decide that if she ever found La Tasse, he would be the last to lay a finger on it.
Which now meant she would have to muddle her own way through. But Olivia thrived on challenges, and after all she’d been through to get this far, she doubted this would pose any problems.
She flexed her fingers, then twiddled them as though she were mimicking twinkling stars. The grazes were still healing, but they had lost their stiffness and were dextrous enough for the task. Satisfied, she returned to her contemplation of the cup.
Judicious use of a scalpel would be a prudent beginning, and then she would take it from there. The more stubborn particles could be cleared with distilled water and a soft brush. If a hard sinter layer had developed—which after so long in the ground was possible—she would try a weak acid solution, but only after consultation with Thorsten Grosshans, her university contact. La Tasse was too precious to leave to chance.
She looked up, a small movement reminding her where she was and who she was with. Raimund was regarding her intently, his palms pressed on the closed steel box.
‘You were far away,’ he said.
She nodded but didn’t comment, waiting to see if he would read her mind as he had done so often in the past. She didn’t care if he did, not this time. The only thing on her mind on this occasion was pottery restoration.
‘You are worried about La Tasse?’
She held up the cup and inspected the dirt-encrusted rim. ‘Not really. Cleaning should pose no problem.’
‘But this is not your area, is it?’
Forgetting her resolve to remain dispassionate, she threw him a surly look. It wasn’t her area, that was true, but she didn’t need reminding of the fact.
‘Don’t worry. You’ll have your inscription.’
His mouth tightened. ‘I was not inferring that you were incapable, Olivia. My concern was for you.’
‘I’m fine.’ She put down the cup and stared around the chamber, frowning. ‘Where did Patrice keep his curator’s materials? With all this, he must have kept an extensive supply.’
Raimund pointed to the end filing cabinet. ‘I believe you’ll find a collection of archaeological tools in the bottom drawer. There are some other items in the cupboard by the sink.’
After conveying her thanks, she went to work, leaving Raimund to return the codex to the safe and to get on with whatever it was he had to do that day. Preferably an above-ground activity requiring long absence from the archives. Away from her.
She had been correct in her assessment of the exacting Patrice. He had everything. In the filing cabinet she found several sets of tools, including, to her delight, a set of dental instruments for finer work. Stacked neatly in the cupboard were bottles of distilled water, abrasive cleaning pads of various grades, pure soap flakes, and rolls of thick blotting paper.
She took a roll of blotting paper and the dental tools to the table, pulled up a chair and settled down to her task. To her annoyance, Raimund wheeled a chair alongside and sat down. She had hoped he’d leave her in peace with La Tasse and her wounds, but it appeared that, despite words conveying his concern was only for her, his fear for the cup was real.
Ignoring him, she rolled out some blotting paper, drew on her cotton gloves, and then selected a dental pick from the set. Holding it over the paper, she turned the cup around in her hands searching for the most heavily crusted area. While she knew her hands were steady enough, this was new territory, the tools unfamiliar and the technique unpractised.
‘I have to be careful,’ she said, addressing Raimund as though he were a student. ‘Encrustations can alter and form new materials harder than the pottery. Weathering causes lime to leach from the surrounding soil and stones. This can form into a solution that attaches to the buried artefact. Over time, a hard layer develops. I’m not sure if that is the case here. There’s still some looser material on the surface, but closer to the clay perhaps I will find what is called a sinter layer.’
He leaned closer, watching the pick as she scraped gently away at the soil. His right shoulder almost touched her left, and she could feel the warmth of him through her shirt.
‘And if you find a layer such as that?’
‘I’ll try a scalpel, perhaps. It depends.’
‘On what?’
She put down the cup and rolled her shoulders. She had only started and already her back ached. This would be a laborious and painstaking process.
‘On whether the sinter layer has actually filled the grooves of the inscription rendering it unreadable.’
She reached for the cup again, but Raimund stayed her hand.
‘Leave it. It can wait for tomorrow. You are tired.’
Now that he’d brought it to her attention, she realised she was tired. Fatigued in mind and body, but also exhausted emotionally. It was almost impossible to believe that only twenty-four hours ago she had swerved from triumph to fury to abject terror in a matter of minutes.
She touched her stomach. She had forgotten how badly cut and grazed she was, how dehydrated and heat-stressed. Her hand flopped in her lap and she stared at La Tasse, blinking at the gumminess of her eyes. The skin around them felt tight and dry, and her cheeks hot in the cool of the chamber, flushed with tiredness and sunburn.
Sleep beckoned, crooning its drowsy lullaby and seducing her with thoughts of silken sheets and a soft mattress. But La Chanson du Chevalier Gris—The Song of the Grey Knight—also called. It had waited over six and a half centuries to reveal itself, and now its voice was strong, summoning the one person who could solve its riddle, bidding her to Durendal.
This was everything she had ever dreamed of. She couldn’t stop now. She couldn’t leave this treasure, this place. It might disappear, never to be found again, vanishing to only a memory of lost ambition.
‘I don’t want to leave here,’ she said quietly.
‘You sound like Patrice.’
‘I’m serious.’
‘I know you are.’ He put a finger to her chin and bade her to look at him. His espresso eyes were soft and warm, and filled with understanding. He had read her after all. ‘I will let you return, Olivia.’
‘Promise me.’
‘On my officer’s honour, you have my word. Now come, I’ll escort you to your room.’ He smiled. ‘Christiane and Edouard will never forgive me if I do not treat you well. They are very enamoured of you.’
‘I think they’d be enamoured of any woman you brought home,’ she responded dryly. ‘I think they’re hoping for some Blancard bébés to dote on.’
‘Then they’ll be waiting a long time.’ He took her elbow. ‘Come. It’s time for bed.’
If his words hadn’t stung so much she would have laughed at the juxtaposition. In most people’s eyes, beds and babies were synonymous, but Raimund wasn’t most people.
He was the last Blancard.
And from the sound of it, determined to keep it that way.
The house was silent. Olivia lay in bed listening, straining for noise—the sound of Christiane washing dishes, Edouard and Raimund talking, the hiss of the coffee machine—but there was nothing.
She rubbed at her eyes, yawned and then rolled over to inspect the bedside clock. It was after eight. She h
ad slept for five hours and probably would have slept for longer if her full bladder hadn’t pressed her awake.
With a sigh, she eased herself out of bed and padded to the ensuite bathroom, wondering whether Raimund had rested as well. It wasn’t only her with puffy dark eyes. He had also exhibited signs of deep fatigue, yet somehow she doubted he could have lain in bed for the remainder of the afternoon as she had done. He would think it a sign of weakness, an act unworthy of a soldier. Something only a civilian like her could indulge in.
After a blissful, wakening shower, she wandered downstairs to hunt out Raimund. She found him in the lounge, standing in front of the empty fireplace, silently staring at the silver photo frame he held in his hands. He didn’t look up.
Quietly, she crossed the room to stand beside him. She studied the photograph and then placed her palm on his arm, searching his face.
It was still, emotionless, but she sensed a clench-jawed resoluteness, the quiver of a man holding his feelings in check through an implacable iron will. She wished she could help him, but only time would ease his pain.
And perhaps the destruction of the object he blamed for all his losses.
She looked at the photograph again. ‘Patrice was very handsome.’
‘Yes. In school, he had many girlfriends.’
The photo showed Patrice grinning at the camera, his arms crossed as he lounged against the bonnet of a silver Mercedes convertible. Like Raimund, he was extremely good-looking, with the same Mediterranean skin, deep brown eyes and unfairly long lashes. His hair, while short, was less severely cut and his physique leaner, his shoulders less broad, but he had Raimund’s long legs and innate sex appeal.
He regarded her for a long moment. ‘He liked you. Very much, I think.’
‘I never met him.’ She tapped the glass near Patrice’s face. ‘I would have remembered.’
‘He attended a lecture, in England. I do not know the details, but he heard you speak. On his return, we talked about how we could approach you, to ask for help without telling you any of our history.’ He stared back at the photograph. ‘But we did nothing. I left on deployment and then —’
His chest heaved. He turned his head away, but not before Olivia caught the glitter in his eyes. With an unsteady hand he replaced the frame on the mantelpiece and without a word walked through the sliding glass doors and out onto the plant-filled terrace.
Olivia bit her lip, unsure whether to follow, or leave him to his consuming, guilt-ridden grief.
She looked at the photo, at Raimund’s much-loved brother, and knew instinctively that what Raimund needed was humanity. He had spent too long starved of it, deadened by war and suffering, unflinching in the face of misery and sorrow. The French Army officer with an exterior of granite, and an interior filled with anguish.
Olivia stepped out onto the terrace. Raimund leaned against the stone parapet looking out towards the hill above Rognes, where the ruins of the old town still stood. The night was warm and scented, the sky purple against the horizon, coloured by the sun’s last glow. Cicadas chirped their mating calls, and in the surrounding trees, birds screeched and cackled as they fought for perches.
‘Edouard and Christiane are at the vignerons’ cooperative,’ he said. ‘Christiane has left some hachis parmentier in the oven and there is a salade in the refrigerator if you are hungry. Edouard has opened a bottle of his special wine for you.’
‘I’m fine.’
Delicious though hachis parmentier would be, at that moment, food was the last thing Olivia wanted. The wine, while enticing, could wait.
He raised his head to the sky. ‘It is a beautiful night.’
She joined him and leaned her backside against the low wall. The drop to the ground was long, but in typical French fashion, there was no guard.
‘Very.’ She inhaled. ‘It smells delicious here.’
‘It is the smell of Provence.’ He angled a little to face her. ‘And the sound. The cicadas are very noisy.’
‘It’s funny, but you don’t really notice them until they stop. Then it’s like someone’s just turned off a jackhammer.’ She smiled. ‘We have them in Australia, too. Along with blowflies, mosquitoes and God knows how many other insects. If we were standing outside like this at home, we’d be eaten alive.’
‘You miss your country?’
‘Yes and no.’ She picked a leaf from a riotous pot of basil and held it to her nose. ‘I like Oxford. I like its air of academia and its beautiful buildings and the students rushing around, but the weather’s terrible. Here is better. It’s warm and sunny, and the food and wine are fabulous.’
‘You like France?’ He said it as though it surprised him.
She breathed in again, eyes closing. ‘Adore it.’
‘Perhaps you could move here. The university would be pleased to have someone of your reputation on their staff,’ he said.
She tossed the basil leaf over her shoulder and picked a twig of rosemary. Immediately, the air filled with its pungent scent. She didn’t want to look at him in case he saw the longing in her eyes, in case he read the desire brewing behind them. The archives, La Tasse and Durendal, and a respected position with a notable university—all her dreams in once place, her ideal life.
Except that’s all they were—dreams. After all, she’d promised to never reveal the archives’ existence, La Tasse’s secret was buried beneath stone, and Durendal’s final resting place might never be discovered. Besides, if the sword was found her usefulness would be spent. Raimund would discard her without thought. Back to Oxford. Her hands, and life, empty.
Better not to dream too hard right now.
‘Perhaps,’ she said, letting the rosemary fall.
They settled back into contemplation. Olivia picked at herbs, rubbing their leaves and smelling them, adding to the evening’s heavy perfume. She could feel Raimund watching her, but she maintained a deliberate nonchalance.
‘Patrice called you brilliant.’
She smiled slightly. ‘I’ve been called that before. Usually just before someone starts shredding one of my theories to pieces.’ She cast him a sideways look. ‘Academia can be cutthroat. Some people take great pleasure in pulling others down. I’ve had my fair share of attacks.’
‘But you are strong.’
She shrugged. ‘You have to be.’
He stared at the sky again, at the blinking stars spattering the inky night.
‘I think Patrice would have loved you,’ he said quietly. ‘You are everything he thought perfect in a woman. That unique combination of intelligence, beauty and courage.’
Olivia gaped at him. His eyes glistened but he showed no other sign of emotion. He wouldn’t look at her.
‘You would have fallen in love, married and produced adorable, clever children, and rebuilt the Blancard family. But the world is unjust. He’s dead and none of this will ever happen. We end with me.’
She rose and stood in front of him, then placed her hands on his shoulders, wanting to shake him but refraining. Instead, she leaned forward and stared hard into his face.
‘This is not the end, Raimund. You might be the last, but it doesn’t mean it ends.’
His mouth maintained its stubborn line. ‘You are wrong.’
‘What? So you’re incapable of falling in love, having a family, being happy?’
He didn’t answer.
She clenched her hands and pulled on his sleeves, unable to stop from shaking him. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
He shrugged her off and stood, pacing to the other side of the terrace, putting distance between them. Then he dug his fingers into his forehead and rubbed hard.
‘You do not understand.’
‘Actually, I do. You’re being a self-pitying jerk.’
His hands dropped. He stared at her in disbelief.
She didn’t back down. To hell with him. Raimund needed to be told. He’d probably roar at her like a parade ground sergeant and storm off, but too bad. Someone needed to drag hi
m out of this hole he’d dug. It might as well be her.
‘Believe it or not, you’ve quite a bit to offer a woman. You’re disgustingly handsome, charming when it suits you, extremely well off and from what I can gather, possess a reasonable degree of intelligence. And,’ she said, advancing towards him, ‘you’re probably sensational in the sack. There’s a whole lot to love about you, Raimund. So stop the self-pitying garbage about being the last of the line. Fall in love, have your adorable, clever Blancard family and discover that happiness isn’t just for the privileged few.’
‘I can’t fall in love.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake. Why not?’
‘Because I’m a soldier.’
Something about his tone, the way his eyes shifted made her suspicious this was a prevarication, or at best, only the tip of some deeper justification, but she let it pass. Instead, she let out a disparaging bark of laughter.
‘Right. Soldiers breed, too, you know.’
‘The Legion fights in places people have never heard of, in places the world has forgotten existed. Death comes easily. I do not want to be another soldier who leaves his family with nothing but grief.’
Olivia pinched the bridge of her nose, frustrated and more than a little bit sad. For Raimund to have this attitude towards life, the horrors he must have witnessed and experienced must have damaged him irreparably. Her heart squeezed in anguish and pity. Without thinking, she took his left hand and clasped it in both of hers.
As if they were watching, waiting for the most dramatic moment, the cicadas stopped chirping. The silence sounded huge, as though it echoed through the streets and off the hill, before sliding onto the terrace and swirling at their feet in a fog of undeclared feelings and unexpressed words.
‘Do you really believe you’re going to die on some foreign battlefield?’ she asked gently.
‘I hope not, but it is a possibility.’ He grazed his knuckles against her cheek, a tender caress that sent her heart skipping. ‘You have to understand, Olivia. I cannot care about anyone.’
‘Then that’s a terrible tragedy.’
He stared at her, his eyes almost black in the shadowy night, and Olivia felt the threads of connection tangle between them, bonding them together like some magical unlaceable knot.
