by Cathryn Hein
She held up her chin, a demonstration of her fortitude. ‘I’ll help you. I’ll solve the riddle for you and I’ll find Durendal as I promised. As for my dreams, forget about them. Those I can look after myself.’
‘Now this is more like it,’ said Olivia, stretching out her legs and wriggling against the Mercedes’ leather seats. The Peugeot had been relegated to the garage, replaced by a sleek black saloon.
The engine purred like a well-fed lion. Raimund glanced at her and then revved it. The purr became a roar.
‘My father loved this car.’
‘So do you, by the look of things.’
‘Yes,’ he said, putting the car into gear.
She smiled. ‘You boys love your powerful toys, don’t you?’
He drove towards the gate. ‘In our case, it’s just as well. A powerful car may prove useful if Gaston has tracked us here.’
At the mention of Gaston, her delight in the new car vanished.
‘Do you think he has?’
‘No.’
‘How can you be sure? It’s your parents’ house. Anyone could discover the address.’
‘I am not sure. But this house is one of many we —’ He closed his eyes for a beat. ‘I own. Gaston cannot cover them all. Plus, while you were resting, I reconnoitred the surrounds. The house is not under surveillance, nor were there any security breaches. I’m confident we have not been traced to here. However, I’m not about to take chances with your safety, Olivia, which is why I have changed vehicles.’
He lowered the window and plugged the code into the keypad. The gate swung open. Within minutes, they were on the highway, heading back to the archives, La Tasse secure in the boot and Raimund watching the road and mirrors with predatory intensity.
They spoke little on the journey to Rognes. Their opposing promises bricks in a wall that grew higher the closer they came to fulfilment, leaving what their bodies wanted languishing on the other side.
Neither needed to ask what they would do on arrival at the Rosecs’. As soon as they were inside, Raimund led the way down the hall, unlocking doors and holding them open for her. He took care of the first iris scan, Olivia the second.
She had spent the drive in deep thought. His fatigue—among other things—worried her. While Raimund needed her, she also needed him. He could proclaim his endurance all he liked, but bodies required sleep, and he was exhausted. It was imperative he had rest. Forcing him to take it, though, had so far proven impossible.
But the archives were a sanctuary, and she had a long, boring night of work ahead. An opportunity existed. An opportunity she intended to exploit.
‘This is going to take a while,’ she said, holding up La Tasse and scrutinising the rim. ‘But perhaps I’ll have something by morning.’
‘I’ll assist.’
‘No. You’ll only annoy me.’ She gave him an apologetic look. ‘Sorry, but I need to concentrate. It’s delicate work.’
‘I’ll fetch coffee, then.’
She laid the cup down and faced him. ‘The only coffee you’ll be fetching will be in your dreams.’ She pointed to the sofa. ‘Bed. Now.’
‘I cannot. I must monitor the house.’
Olivia took a deep breath. He was testing her temper. She wanted to get started on the inscription but she wouldn’t be able to think straight if she was worrying about him all the time. She’d had her sleep, it was about time he had his.
‘I can do without the heroics, thank you very much. The house is fine and you know it. If Gaston knew we were here, he would’ve found us by now. You said yourself the Rosecs have been under guard since Patrice’s death. Unless you’ve somehow logged his iris into the scanner, I doubt he’ll be coming down the stairs anytime soon.’
He appeared to consider this, examining her intently, as though he thought she had some sort of ulterior motive. Then he eyed the sofa, and she knew she had won.
‘You will wake me if you need anything.’ It was an order.
‘Of course,’ she replied, although she had no intention of waking him at all. With luck, he’d sleep the night through.
He removed his watch and handed it to her. ‘Two hours. No more.’
‘Two hours,’ she confirmed.
His eyes narrowed slightly but then he grimaced and without another word, walked to the sofa and lay down. Almost immediately, as the sandman and exhaustion worked their magic, his breathing changed and the mask faded. At peace, for at least a while.
Allowing herself a moment’s indulgence, Olivia watched him, so handsome stripped of his worry and anguish. Somehow, she promised silently, she would assuage his tortured conscience and find a way to free him from his vow in a way that kept his honour intact. Though how the hell she would achieve such an outcome was a mystery.
But she would. Somehow.
With a low sigh, she strapped his watch to her wrist, turned back to La Tasse and set about her work.
Raimund stirred on the sofa and then sat up. He rubbed his hand over his face and then contemplated her. It was not an impressed countenance.
‘You did not wake me.’
‘Sorry,’ she said, hiding a satisfied smile and turning back to La Tasse. ‘I forgot.’
He stood and walked over to her side. ‘You are a very bad liar, Olivia.’ He picked up her wrist and looked at the watch. ‘Five hours.’
‘Sorry.’
‘You are not.’
She smiled. ‘You’re right. I’m not. But never mind, with you out of my hair, much was achieved.’ She swivelled on the chair, her smile breaking into a grin. ‘I did it.’
At first he didn’t react, then his mouth stretched and his eyes sparkled. He looked at the cup and then back to her.
‘You have uncovered La Chanson?’
She nodded.
Before she could tell him anything more, his lips pressed against hers, a joyous, spontaneous kiss that turned her stomach inside out and sent her heart hiccupping like a drunk. But it was all too brief. In a flash he was holding her at arm’s length and grinning, his expression filled with admiration. If she weren’t sitting down, she would have melted onto the floor in a besotted puddle.
‘Beauty and brains. Most women are not so fortunate.’
She grinned back at him, her heart careering around her chest. The urge to grab him and kiss him properly was phenomenal. An impulsive, congratulatory kiss wasn’t enough. She wanted the real thing.
‘But I’m not most women,’ she said saucily, hoping to seduce him into grabbing her again.
It almost worked. His knuckles went to her cheek, grazing it softly, but the gesture was tender rather than passionate.
‘No. You are not. You are far more special.’ Then his hand dropped and he turned to the table and the numerous, scribble-covered scraps of paper scattered there. ‘So, you have solved it?’
Tossing aside her disappointment, Olivia sighed. ‘No, unfortunately.’
‘But you’ll be able to?’
She dug around until she found the original transcript and stared at the words she had written so joyously an hour before.
They were in Occitan, the once-favoured language of the south and source of much of the region’s ancient literature. So far, she had made several efforts at deciphering the riddle, but the answer remained elusive. Legend had it Le Chevalier Gris was an educated man. She had not expected the answer to come easily; however, there was no point to an unsolvable riddle. It was only a matter of time, patience and thought before the secret was revealed.
‘Of course,’ she said brightly. ‘Just don’t expect miracles.’
‘But you have already performed one. You found La Tasse. I cannot thank you enough.’
‘You could kiss me again.’
He smiled. ‘I could, but I think perhaps I will save that until you have solved La Chanson.’
‘That’s blackmail.’
He contemplated that for a moment. ‘No. I would call it more of an incentive.’
Olivia raised a singl
e eyebrow and gave an unimpressed sniff. ‘An incentive? Who’s to say it would be any good?’
He made a noise like a splutter, drawing up to stand rigid with insult.
Laughter burst from her. Raimund was French to his bootstraps. He could tolerate some mockery, but certain things appeared out of bounds.
Realising she was only teasing, his umbrage faded. He released a long breath. ‘You try me sometimes, Doctor Walker.’
‘You try me all the time, Monsieur Blancard.’
They smiled at one another, sharing a moment’s lightheartedness.
She returned to her papers and handed him the transcription. ‘Do you understand Occitan?’
‘Only a little. That was Patrice’s field, not mine.’ He concentrated on the page, then shrugged and handed it back to her. ‘Something about a path and hiding under night.’
Olivia didn’t need to look at the paper. She already knew the inscription by heart. ‘Take the Honourables’ path but beware. What you seek is hidden in eternal night.’
‘What does it mean?’
She stared at the cup, her eyes drifting out of focus. ‘I don’t know yet.’ She frowned. ‘And that symbol. It bugs me. I can’t figure it out.’
‘Do not worry. It will come.’
She dragged herself back into reality. ‘Of course it will. The answer will be here somewhere.’
A yawn stretched her mouth. The night had flown, sped by her excitement as letter by letter, the song appeared. As soon as the last word was revealed, her spirits had soared and she’d gazed hungrily at the inscription, filled with wonder, amazement and an acute thirst for its secret. But now it was after four in the morning, and weariness had once more settled in her bones.
Sleep, though, would have to wait. There was too much to do.
‘I’ll prepare coffee,’ said Raimund, reading her mind.
She watched him leave. The short nap had done wonders. His stride was long, his shoulders squared. He looked as he did the day he’d walked into her lecture room and sauntered across to where she was tidying her papers. She had known then, just as she knew now. Raimund was a person of conviction.
But then, so was she.
‘There has to be something about the Honourables’ path,’ said Olivia in frustration. ‘There has to be.’
Strewn about the table were Patrice’s files. She had scoured every one of them, but found no reference or clue to the inscription.
‘Bloody Honourables,’ she muttered, picking up a piece of paper and scrutinising it.
She had begun with the hypothesis that the Honourables in question referred to the Grey Knight’s family. The path—a road or track to one of their holdings. Probably a Blancard property in the Languedoc. Not that that narrowed it down greatly.
Ownership of the Blancards’ ancestral lands had been gained and lost many times, through war and disfavour, but always they had been reclaimed. Patrice’s records showed that Raimund now owned every single property the Grey Knight had held at the time he’d left on the Eighth Crusade, plus some. Even the lands of Guy of Narbonne had been annexed.
‘You do realise you’re rich,’ she called out to Raimund, dropping one piece of paper and picking up another. ‘You should be swanning around Monaco, hanging with the jet set, flirting with movie stars and princesses.’
His voice echoed back from the other end of the archives, where she had left him inspecting relics for any sign of the symbol.
‘I prefer my men.’
Irritation prevented her from making a smart comment.
She threw the paper across the table and folded her arms, staring at the ceiling with her lips pursed. Take the Honourables’ path. Perhaps the Grey Knight was in such a hurry he’d made a mistake, used a possessive noun when he hadn’t meant to. Perhaps it was the honourable path. Like a trail to a church or temple. Durendal could be hidden in a crypt, somewhere where light didn’t shine. But then why would there be danger?
An honourable path would be to follow the king, which was what the Grey Knight did, all the way to Tunis, where he succumbed to the same flux that had killed Louis.
If Durendal lay in Tunisia, their journey was over. The Blancards held no land there, and the riddle was too vague to be of help. As for the symbol, unless she could find some hint of what it meant, it was as good as useless.
She slid off the stool and padded to the furthermost shelf where Raimund stood examining a stunningly beautiful ivory, enamel and jewelled crucifix.
‘Found something?’ she asked hopefully.
‘No. You?’
She released a dejected moan, rubbing a hand over her face. ‘Perhaps my thinking’s flawed.’
‘Olivia, you have been searching less than a day and covered only a tiny section of the archives. You must be patient.’
‘But what if I’m looking at this wrong?’
‘If you are, then I’m sure in time you will discover the correct path.’
She looked at Raimund’s watch, still strapped to her wrist. ‘Oh, hell. Christiane is going to kill us.’
He grabbed her wrist and stared, then almost threw the cross onto the shelf.
‘Quickly,’ he ordered, snatching her hand and marching towards the stairs. ‘If Christiane’s gigot is overdone she will not be happy.’
Christiane wasn’t just unhappy, she was furious, but somehow Raimund talked her down. Olivia had apologised profusely before taking the coward’s way out and hiding behind Edouard to let Raimund take the brunt of Christiane’s ire.
Edouard, the darling old man, had patted her hand affectionately before thrusting an overfull glass into it. Not realising it was pastis, Olivia had taken a large gulp only to end up sputtering and gasping for breath as the strong aniseed liqueur sent her throat into paroxysms. Grinning, Edouard had then told her to buck up. If she wanted to marry a Provencal, she had better develop a taste for the local delights.
The gigot was, as Olivia had anticipated, delicious. As her temper settled, Christiane returned to her usual fettle. She chastised them both for working themselves to the bone, but it was Raimund who copped the full impact. He was not taking good enough care of his femme and if he wasn’t careful, she might forsake him for another. Olivia and Raimund’s protest about their relationship was met with the usual nose-tapping dismissal.
After dinner, all four of them retreated to the terrace. Edouard had set some wooden chairs outside and the night was too balmy to spend it in front of the television.
The two men settled to one side, Olivia and Christiane the other. Edouard waved a bottle of rosé at them, but to his disappointment, received no takers. Olivia was still recovering from her pastis escapade.
The evening was discordant with the sound of cicadas and birds fighting over perches. Olivia looked at the purple-stained sky, her mind drifting back to the inscription—a place it had never really left. The answer had to reside in the archives. Centuries of Blancard history lay on the shelves. All she had to do was make the connection.
‘You are working too hard,’ said Christiane.
‘I wouldn’t describe what I’m doing as work.’ She smiled at the old woman. ‘More adventure.’
Christiane didn’t smile back. Instead, she pursed her lips, her expression unimpressed. ‘You and Patrice are the same. Seduced by that cellar. And look at him now. Rotting alongside his poor parents. Such a waste.’
‘Yes. He was too young to die.’
‘You do not want to end up like him.’
‘I’m not planning on dying, Christiane.’
Dark eyes fixed on hers. ‘But you’re not living either.’ She pointed her chin towards the men. ‘And neither is Raimund.’
Olivia took stock of him. Fatigue had clawed its way back across his face, filling hollows with darkness and deepening the lines around his eyes and mouth. Bar a short interlude at lunch, neither of them had rested. Olivia had now been awake for twenty-four hours, Raimund almost as long. Till now, only the thrill of discovery had kept his weari
ness at bay.
While outwardly Raimund appeared to be listening to Edouard, there existed an air of preoccupation about him, as though his mind was only half focused.
As though sensing her appraisal, he raised his eyes. ‘Okay?’ he mouthed, tilting his head slightly towards Christiane.
She nodded and he smiled, a gesture that softened his face and sent an intoxicating surge of pleasure rushing from the tip of her scalp all the way down to the very end of her toes.
‘It’s about time,’ said Christiane.
‘About time for what?’
‘About time Raimund found someone worthy of him. He has spent too long in the company of his men. It has turned him cold-blooded. He needs a woman.’
Olivia sighed and, needing an ally, decided to confide in Christiane.
‘I doubt he considers me worthy. I’m not sure he considers me anything. Sometimes I think he’s attracted to me. Sometimes I even think he might care, but most of the time he’s completely indifferent.’
‘He’s a man unused to showing his feelings. Raimund is like his grandfather that way. He, too, was a soldier. There is usually one in every Blancard generation. It’s a tradition.’
Olivia kept her gaze on Raimund. ‘That must make it hard.’
‘It’s also convenient.’ Catching Olivia’s puzzlement, she explained, ‘It allows him to treat relationships as temporary.’
‘Has he had many girlfriends?’ asked Olivia, anxious to probe now she’d opened up.
‘He’s French,’ said Christiane with a sniff. ‘And a Blancard. Of course he’s had many women.’
A snarl of jealousy knotted her stomach. A man like Raimund would have had women hanging off him from an early age. He was bound to have had many lovers, she knew that, but the knowledge still left her sulky.
As if reading her thoughts, Christiane patted her hand. ‘None like you, though.’
The reassurance sent the green-eyed monster temporarily back in its den. Jealousy was a pointless emotion, in particular when the man who’d caused it had no intention of returning her feelings.
Without warning, the old woman’s pat became a vice-like grip, her fingers like talons.
‘You mustn’t let him return to the army. We’ve already lost Patrice. We don’t want to lose Raimund. And neither do you.’
