by Cathryn Hein
His fingers stayed pressed against her cheek as though he couldn’t bear to break the bond they’d made, but then his hand slid away, leaving her skin tingling with the ghost of his touch.
‘It’s the reality of my life.’
‘Only because you’re fool enough to let it be.’
CHAPTER
7
Throughout breakfast, Christiane’s eyes swivelled back and forth like an overexcited chameleon’s. Her gaze would land on Olivia, dart to Raimund’s, flicker back to Olivia’s, then lock meaningfully with her husband’s before starting the process all over again.
It was a relief when Raimund finally stood, retrieved a laptop from the kitchen bench, and escorted Olivia from the room and down the stairs towards the archives.
They didn’t speak until they reached the first scanner. After the previous night, there was nothing more to say, or rather, nothing Olivia could find the right words for.
Neither of them appeared to have slept. The bruises under Raimund’s eyes had darkened, while his skin seemed paler, its Mediterranean glow muted by fatigue. He still walked with the same erect, purposeful gait, but not as he had two days ago. The difference was subtle, but it was there—an almost imperceptible droop in his tall frame, a slight slowing of his step, a shortening of his long stride.
Olivia knew she looked no better. When she saw her baggy-eyed reflection mocking her from the bathroom mirror, she’d done the best she could to make herself presentable. A tightly drawn chignon had made some improvement, the makeshift facelift bolstering her wilted skin, as had a thick application of moisturiser, but she still looked five years older than she was.
Not that Raimund appeared to care. Bar a polite nod and a bonjour at the breakfast table, he had barely looked at her.
She waited as he unlocked the scanner cover, impatient to get to La Tasse and a morning of mind-numbing work that would give her time to analyse her situation and gain some perspective, but he didn’t scan his iris. Instead, he balanced the laptop in his arm and connected a USB cable between it and a slot in the control panel. Only when that was done did he look into the lens, but there was no resultant clack or metallic slide of bolts. The door remained locked.
He nodded at the lens. ‘Please look into the camera.’
Olivia gave him a quizzical glance and then did as she was told. After a few seconds, he asked her to step away, keyed something into the laptop, and then disconnected the cable.
‘Look into the camera again.’
This time when she did, the echoing sound of the door unlocking filled the space. The scanner light switched to a steady green. The bolts began to shift. Raimund had programmed her into the system.
At the portcullis, he repeated the exercise, and as they watched the gate rise, he held out his palm. In it were two keys.
‘Take them, Olivia. They are yours.’
She stared at his face, trying to understand him, but he had reverted to guarded impassivity and his expression told her nothing.
He dropped the keys into her palm and then curled her fingers around them and held it closed, his hand warm against hers.
‘You may come and go as you wish now. The archives are yours to study for as long as you’d like.’
His statement left her at a loss. This was an incredible gift to grant. Raimund needed her help to find Durendal, but he didn’t have to give her unhindered access to the archives. She had done nothing to earn this level of trust. Not even finding La Tasse warranted this.
She stared up the aisle, to where the cup sat nestled in its case. ‘I could take La Tasse and walk out of here.’
‘But you will not.’
She frowned at him. ‘How do you know?’
‘Because, Dr Walker,’ he said, releasing her hand and tucking the laptop under his arm, ‘dishonesty is not in your nature.’ With that pronouncement, he cast her a brief smile, headed for the stairs and began to climb.
For a long moment, Olivia couldn’t figure out what he was doing, and then it dawned on her that he was leaving. Rather than feel pleased, the idea sent a ripple of disquiet down her spine.
‘Where are you going?’
He stopped and looked back at her. ‘I will leave you in peace to work on La Tasse. If you need anything, please do not hesitate to ask Edouard or Christiane.’
Then he took the steps two at a time and was gone, leaving her alone with the past and an echo of unease made worse by the subterranean quiet.
Christiane was not impressed by the hour Olivia ascended for lunch and showed no hesitation in articulating her displeasure. Only an ignorant étrangère would dare neglect déjeuner and a fortifying glass of wine. While she did not demand many courtesies from her guests, obeisance to tradition was one of them.
Olivia was left red-faced and cowed by the tirade, but after suitably humble apologies, forgiveness was granted. With a kiss on both cheeks, the old lady planted her at a fully laid table and demanded she not move. As Christiane whipped up a feather-light omelette and salad, Edouard grinned and winked at her behind his wife’s back before pouring an oversized glass of rosé and urging Olivia to drink.
Of Raimund there was no sign, and when she asked, the Rosecs simply gave identical Gallic shrugs and carried on with their gossip. His absence didn’t appear to bother them, but Olivia couldn’t shed the nagging feeling that something was wrong. She was working on the inscription, the very thing that could lead them to Durendal, and yet Raimund was missing.
And somewhere out there, hiding amongst the tourists and locals, a murderer was on the hunt.
Delicate probing of the Rosecs resulted in the reply that Raimund was a grown man perfectly capable of looking after himself. He was, Christiane reminded her haughtily, an officer of the French Army and Provencale to his bootstraps. A combination which, in her opinion, made him practically indestructible. And if it was him running off with another woman Olivia was worried about, she would do well to remember he was a Blancard. They were born honourable. Olivia was fretting about nothing.
Replete, and with the solemn promise to return at eight o’clock for dinner, Olivia descended back underground, left no wiser as to Raimund’s whereabouts.
Settled at the table, she picked up La Tasse and studied the rim. She had exposed what she thought was half a word, but there was still much to uncover and her fear of a sinter layer appeared to be prophetic. The dental pick removed the hard clay with ease, but not the calcified deposits encrusting some of the letters. When the worst of the dirt was gone, she would try a scalpel, but for the moment, it was a matter of endless scraping.
After an hour she placed the cup on the table and stood, stretching her aching muscles before heading off on a restorative lap of the room.
There was so much to look at amongst the archives that even though she had now done more wanders through the shelves and passes around the chamber than she could count, on each journey she seemed to find something new. But each journey also found her staring up at the same painting, puzzled by its inclusion in a display which featured so many more worthy works.
The collection’s lesser paintings were stacked on the shelves in custom-made slots, wrapped in cloth. On the walls, however, Patrice had hung only those works with a pecuniary value, as though this were a gallery and the paintings were on display for buyers to peruse. Except for one, which seemed, on first appraisal, better suited for firewood.
It hung forlornly near the portcullis, like a poor cousin hovering around an exit, ashamed of its appearance in the company of so much glamour. Given its shabby state, perhaps it was, but for Olivia, there was something strangely fascinating about the painting, although she couldn’t figure out what.
She estimated its age at mid-thirteenth century, perhaps earlier. Though it had been cleaned, at some stage in its history, the painting had been badly damaged and inexpertly repaired. A raised streak ran down the centre of the picture, where the wood had snapped and been tacked back together, distorting the image.
/> Despite this, the scene was instantly recognisable. It showed the coronation of Charlemagne as Holy Roman Emperor by Pope Leo III on Christmas Day in AD 800 in St Peter’s Basilica. Charlemagne sat on a throne wearing the Imperial Crown, while around him stood Pope Leo and the important cardinals of the day. Behind them, peering over their shoulders, stood a group of onlookers, and it was they who captured Olivia’s attention.
Two, in particular, seemed incongruous, as though they were strangers who had walked in off the street, attracted by the spectacle within. They stood in the centre of the painting, bent towards Charlemagne, their bodies warped longitudinally by the repair, as though they’d been tucked into the crack like bedsheets. Although their faces had been damaged by time, there was no denying the looks of adoration directed towards the newly crowned Emperor, as if he were Pope instead of Leo.
It was a strange depiction for the era and not one she had seen before, but then history had already been turned on its head these last few days. Another inconsistency in the accepted truths of her discipline didn’t surprise her in the least.
As she stretched and loosened bunched muscles, Olivia kept her eyes on it, wondering why it wasn’t on the racks with the other paintings, and why Patrice had thought it important enough to hang.
‘Weird,’ she muttered, then threw it a last frown and returned to the cup and a mystery she could unravel.
As the hours passed, the time between walks decreased. To ease her aching back and stiff joints, she resorted to sitting on the rubber matting in a variety of yoga positions. The constant fear of damaging the cup, of accidentally flaking away a piece of the inscription and having it crumble to dust on the paper, lost forever, was taking its toll. The tension was tying her in knots. She knew she could do it, but that didn’t stop it scaring the hell out of her.
At seven, just as she was about to give up for the day and return upstairs for a long shower, something strange appeared below the dental pick. As she peered closer, trying to make out what it was, a goosepimply swell of excitement crept its way up her neck.
On this section of the rim, the clay seemed sunken, as though the cup had been badly chipped and filled with dirt. But this wasn’t a chip. This was something different.
With sweat tingling her brow and her breath shallow with anticipation, she carefully worked the section, scraping away stubbornly clinging remnants of soil and the few calcium encrustations that yielded to the pick. It took another forty minutes to ply the deposits free, then, with her heart thumping, she took a breath and gently blew away the last of the dust.
She stared, blinking, and wondering what the hell she’d uncovered.
Etched deep into the cup—much deeper than the fragments of writing she had exposed—was a symbol, but nothing she recognised. It was uncomplicated—a circle divided in the lower half by a horizontal line, with a cross hovering in the empty space above. The line protruded slightly either side of the circle, but there were no letters or numbers or anything else to tell her what it might mean.
A circle with a single line and a cross. That was it.
Olivia set La Tasse down on the blotting paper and sat looking at it with her right arm crossed over her chest and her chin resting on the palm of her left hand. She flicked through images in her mind, everything she could think of associated with Durendal and Roland, yet there were none that matched. She delved further, digging into the vaults of her memory for symbols pertaining to Charlemagne, Guy of Narbonne, and then when that failed, she widened her search to the Crusades, to Saint Louis and the Templars, but her memory revealed nothing.
She stood and began to pace. Thinking, racking her mind for anything that might be remotely similar, yet, frustratingly, the symbol did not appear to have relevance to anything. She circled the cabinets, inspecting the contents, eyeing sword hilts, book bindings, goblets, parchments. Then she scrutinised the paintings. Only the one near the portcullis gave her pause, though why, she didn’t know. The symbol didn’t appear on that either.
Letting out a grumpy huff, she stomped back to the study area and glared at the cup. How dare it throw this at her? An inscription—a riddle—that’s what was meant to be etched under the outer rim, not a symbol she had never seen before. All she had to do was determine the meaning behind the riddle and it would lead her to Durendal. That’s what the legend said. That’s what Raimund and Patrice and countless other Blancards believed. It’s what she believed.
Strange symbols were not, and never had been, part of the equation.
‘Where’s Raimund when you need him?’ she said aloud and then started at the intrusion of noise. She’d been alone for so long, even her own voice sounded strange in the silence. Raimund had said he would leave her to work in peace, but she hadn’t expected him to leave her for the entire day, and now, with something important to show him, he wasn’t there.
She checked Patrice’s computer—the only clock she could find—and then yelped. If she didn’t get a move on, Christiane would boot her out of home for lack of respect, and given Madame Rosec’s formidable temper, she doubted even Raimund would be able to charm her way back in.
She made it to dinner with two minutes to spare and a wide grin from Edouard. Christiane turned from the stove, gave her panting guest an appraising look and a muttered ‘just as well’, before returning to her cooking.
‘Where’s Raimund?’ asked Olivia, sitting at the table and accepting a glass of wine from a still grinning Edouard.
The kitchen smelled delicious, filled with the distinctive aroma of tomato and basil. Olivia’s stomach let out a hearty grumble. Without asking, Edouard cut a slice of baguette and handed it to her.
‘He hasn’t returned,’ came the huffy retort from the stove.
‘He has special business today,’ said Edouard.
‘That boy always has special business. He should be here with his girlfriend. I made petit farci especially.’ Christiane smiled beatifically at Olivia, as though she’d spent the afternoon martyring herself for her godson. Given the smell of the kitchen, she probably had. ‘It’s his favourite.’
Olivia returned her smile and then focused on Edouard. ‘What special business?’
But Edouard simply puffed up his cheeks, blew air over his pouty bottom lip, and shrugged. The French equivalent of ‘who knows?’.
Although she hadn’t ventured outside that day, Olivia could feel the heat emanating from the terrace. Every now and then, the breeze would curl its way inside, swirling delicious aromas and adding to the overwhelming warmth. After the cool of the archives, the kitchen began to feel uncomfortably hot.
A dribble of sweat snaked down her back and Olivia became aware that, despite her heavy-duty deodorant, she might not smell as fresh as she would like. She cleared her throat, unsure if she should ask, but desperate for a shower and some clean clothes.
‘As Raimund is late, perhaps I have time for a shower?’ she asked gamely.
Christiane considered her request as though she was an haute cuisine chef and this a Michelin-starred restaurant. She gave her pot of tomato sauce a stir and taste, then opened her oven door and inspected the contents, her nose scrunching as she inhaled. A poke of the stuffed vegetables, some more contemplation and the decision was made.
‘Fifteen minutes.’
Olivia did it in ten.
When she arrived back in the kitchen, Raimund still hadn’t returned. Ten minutes more passed, and even the ever-smiling Edouard appeared to lose patience.
Olivia kept looking towards the stairwell, hoping Raimund’s tall figure would appear. Such was her unease, she didn’t even care if he ignored her. Knowing he was back, unharmed would be enough. Besides, one word about her discovery, and his attention would be hers.
Declaring dinner would be ruined if left any longer, Christiane began to serve. Raimund would have to make do with leftovers.
The petit farci, like every other meal cooked by Christiane, was superb, although given the weather, rather heavy going. But i
t was Raimund’s favourite, and as Christiane told Olivia multiple times, she could tell just by looking at him that those idiots in the army hadn’t been feeding him properly.
Dinner became a conversational minefield. Olivia found herself quizzed on her cooking skills, only to be found wanting. After a diatribe on the fall of French society which Olivia struggled to keep up with, Madame Rosec huffily announced she would provide lessons. Raimund could not be allowed to starve. Suppressing a sigh, Olivia tried once more to clarify the relationship, but Christiane simply smiled and patted her head, making Olivia feel about twelve years old.
The dishes were cleared and put away and yet Raimund still had not returned. Abandoning the Rosecs, and more importantly, Edouard’s over-zealous wine pouring for the terrace, Olivia took up vigil on the parapet, her eyes on the street below. She had wanted to return to La Tasse, but the Rosecs would have none of it. The work day was over, now was time to relax. But Olivia couldn’t relax. Not while Raimund stayed missing.
As the minutes ticked by and the night deepened, her anxiety grew. No car slid up the road, no tall man walked along the cobbles, the phone didn’t ring. Only cicadas and squawking birds disturbed the sleepy village quiet. A cat slank alongside the wall below and then disappeared around the corner, but there was still no Raimund.
Time passed slowly. She studied the stars, picked herbs, counted the terrace’s terracotta tiles. She spent innumerable minutes mulling over the meaning of the symbol, but her mind wouldn’t sharpen and the mystery only left her baffled and irritated.
In exasperation, she leaned her back against the rear stone wall and closed her eyes, listening to the beat of the night. She thought of home, her parents, the farm, her laconic work-hardened brothers. And then she thought of her grandmother, the woman whose fascination with history and the romantic tales of legendary heroes had unwittingly led her to this place, on this adventure. A woman who would now never know Olivia had fulfilled her promise, that she had found La Tasse du Chevalier Gris.
