The French Prize

by Cathryn Hein

  ‘Please, Raimund. Do as he says.’

  ‘Show some bloody backbone, Olivia!’ snapped Dame Elizabeth.

  ‘Fermez-la! ’

  ‘Oh, shut it yourself, you stupid smelly French—’ Dame Elizabeth’s words cut to a gurgle as Gaston pressed the knife even harder against her throat, obstructing her breath.

  He held his mouth close against her ear, smiling evilly at Olivia, taunting her with Dame Elizabeth’s distress. ‘Choking is a terrible way to die,’ he said sweetly. ‘So slow. So frightening.’

  For several fraught seconds, Dame Elizabeth’s vivid blue eyes were filled with fear, but then the pressure eased and she succumbed to a fit of rattling, heaving coughs as air filled her lungs. She tried to lean forward, wheezing and hacking, but Gaston held her upright in his iron grip.

  Olivia was almost sobbing with the need for Raimund to comply. Why wasn’t he moving? She tried to think, tried to work out what it would take to make him obey.

  Forcing herself to turn away from Dame Elizabeth and Gaston, she put her back to them and held her hand out towards him, into the chasm-like space that existed between them.

  ‘You’re meant to protect people, not let them die. It’s who you are. What you believe.’

  Raimund’s gaze flitted from Gaston’s to Olivia’s and back again.

  She continued to speak, only this time in a whisper, soft words meant only for him. ‘We need her.’

  It was enough. Keeping his focus on Gaston, Raimund took three deliberate steps to his left, but his hands stayed at his sides.

  ‘Ah. Very good, Doctor Walker.’

  She turned back to Gaston, her eyes widening when she saw the colour of Dame Elizabeth’s face. Her skin had turned waxen, pasty and morbid and against the deep red of splattered blood. A light sweat had broken across her forehead and her eyes, once so bright, were lifted, as though they were about to roll backwards into her head.

  Panic flared in Olivia’s stomach. She took a step towards him. ‘Let her go. Please. Look at her. She’s sick.’

  ‘Get back.’

  It was Raimund, but she ignored him.

  ‘You’re killing her, Gaston.’

  He smiled. ‘I do not believe that event would cause me any great sorrow. However, your elderly friend did make a valid point.’ He contemplated the doorway Raimund had vacated. ‘Perhaps it would be wiser for me to leave while she’s still alive. Take three more steps to your left, Raimund.’

  This time, Raimund obeyed immediately.

  Dragging an almost flaccid Dame Elizabeth with him, Gaston moved slowly towards the door, his eyes constantly moving from Olivia to over her shoulder at Raimund.

  ‘Three more steps. You, too, Doctor Walker.’

  Olivia did as she was told.

  Gaston had reached the door into the foyer. ‘I suggest you both stay where you are. Cutting her throat would give me immense pleasure, although I would prefer not to. People tend to notice blood.’

  He took a step backwards, and then another, watching them closely. Dame Elizabeth’s heels scraped against the tiles, the noise echoing off the high ceiling. To Olivia, it sounded like Death hauling his victim into hell.

  The door had been left ajar. He caught it with his foot and eased it open. It swung, creaking into the room, but he caught it again before it could open fully.

  Then he smiled. An evil, insane sneer that turned Olivia’s blood to ice. The knife rose to Dame Elizabeth’s throat, the point directed upwards, as though he wanted to thrust it through her jaw and bury it to the hilt inside her head.

  ‘Say goodbye, Doctor Walker.’

  Olivia’s mouth dropped open, the scream she wanted to release emerging as nothing more than a sob of unutterable horror.

  Raimund’s arms wrapped around her shoulders. He turned her to his chest and held her face to it. ‘Do not look.’

  ‘Stop him!’

  ‘I cannot.’

  She waited, trembling, for a noise she knew would be impossible to recognise—the sound of death. But all she heard was the thump of someone falling and then a soft click as the door closed on its latch.

  In an instant, Raimund had released her. He ran across the room to the foyer, and then knelt at the crumpled body on the floor.

  Olivia stared, her hand over her mouth, nausea churning her insides, her limbs weak and trembling. This is where her dream had led her, to the loss of another’s life. Few times in her life she had despised herself, but this was one of them. Dame Elizabeth was dead, and she was to blame.

  Raimund turned his face to hers. His expression human again. All trace of the emotionless soldier gone. ‘She is alive, Olivia.’

  She ran to his side, and knelt down next to Dame Elizabeth’s shoulder. The old lady’s eyes were open. She looked tired, but they were once more clear and blue. Dame Elizabeth held her gaze.

  ‘Stop looking so pathetic,’ she said, her voice hoarse but strong. ‘Show some backbone.’

  Olivia took her hand and kissed it, unashamed of the tears washing her cheeks. ‘You’re okay.’

  ‘Of course I am.’ She stopped and coughed, her chest heaving as she struggled for breath. ‘It takes more than a mad Frenchman to kill me.’

  Olivia laughed, sniffing back her tears.

  ‘We need to put her somewhere more comfortable,’ said Raimund.

  She nodded and moved out of the way, reluctantly letting go of Dame Elizabeth’s hand, but not taking her eyes off the old woman’s pale and blood-flecked face.

  Gently, Raimund scooped her in his arms and looked at the doors running off the entrance hall, then at Olivia.

  ‘In here,’ she said, opening and poking her head around the door nearest to the main entrance.

  She held it open for Raimund as he carried Dame Elizabeth inside and laid her carefully down on a cream-sheeted bed. The blood on her face and in her hair looked worse against the starkness of the linen. He picked up her wrist and held it, his eyes raking her face.

  ‘Do you feel any pain in your chest?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m as strong as an ox.’

  At first he didn’t reply, but then he smiled. ‘So it appears.’ Satisfied with her pulse, he then ran his hand down her arm from her shoulder to her fingers. ‘And here? Does it hurt anywhere?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  He eyed her. ‘You will be fine, with rest.’

  Dame Elizabeth let out an irritated sigh before turning her head towards Olivia. ‘Does your boyfriend make a habit of pointing out the obvious?’

  Olivia closed her eyes and said a silent prayer of thanks to whichever god had made this remarkable lady.

  A folded tartan blanket sat on the end of the bed. Raimund flicked it open and then laid it over Dame Elizabeth and tucked it around her body.

  ‘Please fetch some warm water and towels, Olivia,’ he said, as he inspected Dame Elizabeth’s ear. ‘It looks worse than it is. Three stitches will be enough, but I’ll do that at Rognes.’

  Working quickly, afraid to leave Dame Elizabeth alone, Olivia scoured the apartment for towels, bandages and antiseptic. Towels she found, the rest remained elusive, although in a kitchen cupboard she managed to locate a solitary packet of plasters.

  Raimund looked at them and then her when she handed them over. ‘There’s nothing else?’

  She made a helpless gesture.

  He turned back to Dame Elizabeth. ‘I’ll clean your wound as well as I can, but that is all I’ll be able to do until we reach Rognes.’

  Dame Elizabeth glowered at him. ‘If you think I’m leaving my home, think again.’

  Raimund ignored her, and set about carefully cleaning her ear and wiping the blood from her face and neck. The ear still seeped blood, but was slowly clotting. Dame Elizabeth said nothing more, but she watched him intently and Olivia could almost see the cogs ticking over in her formidable brain.

  His movements were gentle but efficient, as though he was used to dealing with injuries of this nature. As
the blood was washed away, he uncovered several smaller cuts where the knife tip had pierced her thin skin. They were minor, but all would need disinfecting. The cut on her ear, however, would need stitching.

  ‘Pack whatever you think Dame Thatcher will need for several days,’ said Raimund, wiping his hands on a towel and watching Dame Elizabeth’s chest.

  ‘I told you, I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘You are.’

  Dame Elizabeth tried to sit up, but Raimund placed his hands on her shoulders and held her down.

  ‘Let me go!’

  ‘No.’

  But Dame Elizabeth wasn’t used to obeying orders, least of all from a Frenchman. ‘Tell this bloody French fool to let me go!’

  ‘It’s for your own good,’ said Olivia, kneeling on the other side of the bed. ‘You need care, and you can’t stay here.’

  ‘I’m not leaving my home!’

  Olivia glanced at Raimund, but his expression was implacable. Dame Elizabeth could argue all she liked. Raimund would have his way. It would be easier, though, if she came willingly.

  Olivia took a deep breath. ‘La Tasse is at Rognes.’

  Raimund stared at her, his gaze searing her like a brand.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, although she knew her words were inadequate for what had passed. She had given away their secret, and from the look in his eyes, it was an offence he was not about to forgive. ‘Gaston knows we have it. He worked it out. He knew you had it that day on the Cours, in the case.’

  ‘What else did you tell him?’ His voice was raw, cutting the air like a polar wind.

  Dame Elizabeth’s eyes swung between them.

  Olivia held his gaze. She would not apologise for what she had done, because it had been the right thing to do in the circumstances. Even if time could be turned back, she would do the same again. La Tasse, Durendal, even Raimund’s respect, was not worth Gaston carrying out his threat. Nothing was worth the cost of another person’s life.

  ‘I told him the first line of La Chanson.’

  Raimund turned from her and stood, rigid and tight-fisted. ‘Put her in clean clothes and pack her belongings. We are leaving.’

  Olivia crawled off the bed to go to him, but he strode towards the door.

  ‘Now, Olivia.’

  ‘I had to,’ she said. ‘I had no choice.’

  He didn’t turn around. The door closed behind him.

  Dame Elizabeth, for once, kept her mouth shut.

  Although it was after midnight in Australia, Olivia used the time the drive to Rognes gave her, and the mobile Raimund had bought, to phone her parents.

  ‘Oh, Olivia, thank goodness,’ said her mum, followed by muffled words as she informed her husband that his daughter was on the phone. ‘Where are you? Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine, Mum,’ Olivia soothed, hating that she’d caused her parents so much anxiety and hating herself for the lies she was about to tell. ‘I’m in France. On holiday.’

  ‘We’ve been worried sick. Some man rang looking for you. He said you were meant to be in Australia, but we didn’t know anything about it and it’s not like you’d fly home without telling us. Then there’s been no answer at your flat. Your dad was all for calling the police.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum, I really am. It was all a stupid mix-up. When I said I was going on holiday I think everyone just assumed I was heading home.’ That wasn’t true. She had told colleagues she was flying back to Australia but admitting that to her mum would only create more problems.

  Fortunately, her mother seemed to accept the excuse, and content her daughter was perfectly safe, settled in for a natter.

  Olivia let her go for a while, answering cheerfully, regaling her with stories about France’s colourful markets, magnificent ruins and mouth-watering meals. Finally, she apologised that she was calling from her mobile and about to run out of credit. The moment she hung up, she dialled her best friend Alison’s flat in Oxford. Even though she knew she’d be at work, Olivia’s hand tightened around the phone. When the call went through to voicemail, she breathed out hard. The message she left was deliberately giggly, as though she’d drunk too much, and bright with the pretence that Australia was great. She signed off with the promise of a proper chat soon.

  The damage controlled, Olivia spent much of the remaining journey staring out at the passing countryside, trying to convince herself all the lies she’d told were justified, when what they really did was make her feel ill.

  Dame Elizabeth sat in the seat behind Raimund, wrapped in her tartan blanket with several plasters over her ear, her blue eyes glittering with interest, and her eyebrows lifting each time Olivia twisted around to check on her. But Olivia ignored her unspoken questions.

  In the quiet of her bedroom, as she had picked through Dame Elizabeth’s wardrobe and drawers, she had confessed most of what had happened up to this point: how she came to be in France, that Raimund was a soldier who also sought Durendal. The old lady already knew about La Tasse and had endured terror at the hands of Gaston, and Olivia felt she had some right to the truth. Avoiding any mention of the archives was difficult, but a promise was a promise. On this she could not betray Raimund. Not even to Dame Elizabeth.

  Propped up against the pillows with her blanket, the old lady had listened avidly, throwing in questions now and again when Olivia’s narrative was left wanting, which, when it came to her and Raimund’s relationship, was often.

  ‘Hopeless,’ Dame Elizabeth had said at the end of it. ‘Utterly hopeless. Five minutes with a Frenchman and your brain has turned to blancmange.’

  ‘There’s been a lot going on,’ Olivia replied.

  ‘So I see. Most of it in your groin.’

  ‘Haven’t you ever had feelings for someone?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I have. Had a wonderfully torrid affair once with James Barton-Hillwarth. Jolly good fun until his rotten wife found out. Threatened to top herself if he didn’t stop. Rather took the sting out of it then.’

  ‘I’m talking about something meaningful, Dame Elizabeth. Not romps with colleagues.’

  ‘Oh. You mean love?’ She gave Olivia a sly look. ‘Never trust a Frenchman, no matter how attractive. They always break your heart.’

  As Olivia stared out the Mercedes’ window and felt Raimund’s anger charging the air like a brewing storm, she wondered if Dame Elizabeth was right.

  ‘This is my godparents’ home,’ he said to Dame Elizabeth when they pulled up on the cobbled street at the side of the Rosecs’. ‘You will stay here for a while.’

  ‘I was perfectly all right where I was, thank you very much.’

  Raimund looked in the rear-vision mirror at his passenger. ‘Monsieur and Madame Rosec are kind enough to open their home to you. It would be polite to treat them with respect.’

  Dame Elizabeth’s wrinkled face turned mutinous, but then she cast a look at Olivia, pursed her lips and nodded. Raimund regarded her for a few seconds longer before stepping out of the car.

  Letting out her breath, Olivia leaned back against her seat and closed her eyes. An evening fraught with animosity stretched ahead of her, and after the terrors she’d endured, she wasn’t sure she possessed the energy to cope. But there was too much that needed explanation, and long bridges to rebuild. Now, more than ever, she needed her strength.

  Despite her protestations that she was perfectly capable of walking, Raimund scooped Dame Elizabeth from the car and carried her all the way to the Rosecs’ kitchen. With Edouard and Christiane hovering around and clucking like a pair of flustered hens, he placed her on a chair and then promptly disappeared upstairs, leaving Olivia to the introductions.

  Although their concern was obvious, Edouard and Christiane remained incurious about Dame Elizabeth’s presence and injuries. Olivia assumed Raimund had called to alert them of their arrival and offered some excuse, but she still found their lack of inquisitiveness incredible. Anything Raimund did appeared to be accepted without question.


  Dame Elizabeth sat patiently in her chair eyeing her hosts with a combination of disdain and interest. ‘Do they speak English?’ she asked Olivia after a while.

  ‘I’m not sure. Probably a little.’ She glanced at Christiane, who gave her an innocent look back. ‘More than they let on, I suspect.’

  ‘Typical. The French think it amusing to pretend they don’t understand, when they understand perfectly well every word you say.’

  Raimund returned to the kitchen with a red plastic medical kit which he laid on the table and then opened.

  ‘I’ll need you to assist, Olivia,’ he said, running his finger over the contents of what seemed more a doctor’s bag than a simple first-aid kit. ‘I do not have anything to numb the ear. This will hurt. You’ll need to hold her still.’

  ‘I’m just here, thank you very much,’ announced Dame Elizabeth. ‘No need to talk as though I’m not. And I can assure you, I’m perfectly capable of remaining still if required.’

  Raimund gave her an appraising look. ‘You are old. Your skin is fragile. This will not be painless.’

  ‘I’m eighty-four to be exact. However, I cannot see how that can possibly have any bearing on my ability to endure pain. Just get it over and done with quickly. Then we can get to work on solving La Chanson.’

  At the mention of La Chanson, Raimund’s jaw went rigid. He stared hard at Olivia, but she wasn’t about to be cowed and stared just as hard back. As soon as Dame Elizabeth was sorted, they were going to have a talk, and judging from the look on his face, they had better have it in the archives. Any discussion was likely to end in a blazing row.

  This time using disinfectant, Raimund re-cleaned all Dame Elizabeth’s wounds. The earlobe bled when the plasters were removed, but the flow was minimal. Although Dame Elizabeth had taken his ministrations in her stride, he again took her wrist to check her pulse. Satisfied, he prepared a surgical needle and thread ready for suturing.

  ‘I take it,’ said Dame Elizabeth, watching him with her lips pursed, ‘you have done this sort of thing before?’