by Cathryn Hein
And then it was over.
Olivia stood at the door, waiting as Raimund fiddled with his laptop. Her heart felt full and heavy, overloaded with feeling, and, as she watched him, so handsome, so noble, so knight-like, she knew she had spoken the truth. She would forgive him anything. Even Durendal.
The question remained, though. Would he forgive himself?
His computer work accomplished, he walked to the door but made no move to leave. He was homed in on her, and his gaze sent her stomach somersaulting.
‘Thank you,’ he said, cupping her face. ‘For all you have given me.’
‘I haven’t finished yet.’
He let her go. ‘It’s tomorrow now.’
‘No, my knight. It’s today. And today is full of hope.’ She curled her arms around his neck and dragged his mouth onto hers, kissing him hard, breathing into him until he was filled with a memory he would be unable to shake. Then she let him go and grabbed his hand. ‘Come on, I’m starving. And we’ve a lot to do.’
She reached for the door, but he stopped her. ‘I’m not your knight, Olivia. There’s nothing noble about me or what I’m going to do.’
‘You’re wrong.’
His mouth thinned and his eyes turned desperately sad. ‘I’m not the man you think I am.’
‘Then what are you?’
He didn’t answer for several seconds. His breaths were long as though he was priming himself to admit a deep secret. Then he frowned and blinked several times, as if clearing away bad thoughts, and spoke, leaving her wondering what he’d left buried. What he had left hidden from her that saddened him so much.
‘A man who fulfils his promises. If you help me find Durendal, I will destroy it.’
‘I know. But we haven’t got that far yet.’
His hand rose to his forehead, but she caught it, tangling her fingers in his, letting him know she understood.
‘It’s okay.’
‘And when this is over, when I’m back with my men. When I’m back in Afghanistan or Chad or some other miserable place, what will you do then?’
Her stomach dropped. She had thought this was enough, that she could save him from self-destruction. ‘Must you return to the army?’
‘It’s for the best.’
‘Whose best? Yours? Mine? What about the life you really want? The one you talked about last night? What happens to that dream?’ Her throat turned thick. ‘That could be …’ She swallowed the ‘us’ back and stared fixedly at the floor.
‘It’s not going to happen,’ he said gently, tilting up her chin. ‘You know this.’
‘It could.’
He sighed and took her in his arms, held her to him with his face buried in the hollow between her neck and shoulders. His breath was hot on her skin.
‘You think you are strong now but that will change.’
‘It won’t.’
He let her go, and she could see him distancing himself, donning his soldier’s mask, hiding his feelings. The stoic had returned, and this time, Olivia feared he had come for good.
The door opened. He beckoned her through.
‘We will see, Olivia. We will see.’
As Olivia and Raimund entered the kitchen, three wrinkled faces turned as one to grin at them, Christiane’s by far the broadest. No one commented, but then they didn’t have to. Their faces said it all. Even Dame Elizabeth looked delighted. Christiane, Olivia suspected, had been gossiping.
Greetings out of the way, the senior citizens returned to discussing the dire state of the nation. From the nods and smiles, all parties were in agreeance and it took only a moment of eavesdropping for Olivia to determine that Dame Elizabeth loathed the British invasion of southern France as much as Christiane. Given that was Christiane’s favourite topic, their easy camaraderie was unsurprising.
She sat at right angles to Raimund, and although the scent of pastries and coffee sent her stomach growling, she could only pick at her food. Her mind was too preoccupied with him.
She wanted the man back. The man she knew existed under that facade of stony resignation. The man who only an hour ago had smiled with her and filled her heart with love. But the soldier had taken over and he was as obdurate as ever.
She reached under the table and put her hand on his leg. He glanced at her and shifted it away, then picked up his espresso cup as though she had suddenly ceased to exist. His dismissal caused her eyes to smart with developing tears. With an iron will, she suppressed them. Despair would only make him distance himself more. Clinical detachment was his way of coping when his emotions became too exposed, even if their suppression left his insides flailed and bleeding.
‘Did you tell Dame Thatcher about the archives?’ he asked quietly.
‘No. I made you a promise. I wouldn’t break that.’
He stared hard at his cup, his jaw rigid. ‘I’ll carry her down after breakfast.’
She leaned forward, trying to keep their conversation private. ‘You don’t have to. The archives are your secret. You don’t have to show her.’
‘I want this over. The riddle will be solved quicker with her there.’
Olivia stared at him. ‘Or is it that you don’t want to be alone with me?’
He said nothing.
‘You think you know me, but you’re wrong. No matter what you do, no matter where you run to, it won’t stop what’s in my heart.’ Her hushed speech made, she sat back, her arms crossed over her chest.
Silence had descended on the breakfast table. Dame Elizabeth, Christiane and Edouard were watching them intently. In the sudden quiet, the scrape back of Raimund’s chair sounded like a screech.
‘You have finished, Dame Thatcher?’
Dame Elizabeth picked up her last scrap of pastry, popped it in her mouth and chewed vigorously. ‘I have now.’ She gazed up at Raimund with sparkling blue eyes. ‘Are you taking me to see it?’
‘After I have changed your dressing, yes.’
For an eighty-four-year-old, Dame Elizabeth could move when she wanted. In seconds, she was on her feet and at Raimund’s side with her bandaged ear cocked towards him.
‘Well? What are you waiting for?’
While he inspected and dressed her ear, Olivia helped Christiane with the dishes. Edouard retreated to the terrace to water the plants.
‘I’m pleased,’ said Christiane as she stood with her arms in suds.
Olivia didn’t have to ask what she was talking about. She stared glumly at the draining dishes, a tea-towel in her hand. ‘I don’t think he intends for it to happen again.’
‘Intentions can be changed.’
‘I hope so.’ She picked up a plate. ‘He said he’s returning to the army.’
Christiane gave her a sharp look. ‘You must not let him.’
‘Easier said than done, Christiane.’
‘You love him?’
Love didn’t seem a strong enough word for the way she felt, and yet there was no other word to explain the utter adoration, the longing that made her insides radiate with the glow of a thousand fireflies, the passion he could elicit with just one look, one tiny touch.
Her throat closed over with the intensity of it. She nodded, momentarily unable to speak.
‘Then you must find a way.’
She swallowed but still her voice came out hoarse, made gravelly by the fear of losing him. ‘He’s so stubborn, Christiane.’
‘Of course he is. He’s a Blancard.’ She smiled. ‘But you’re also stubborn. You’ll find a way.’ She cast a glance over her shoulder. Raimund was packing up the medical kit. ‘Go. Edouard and I will finish this. You have important work to do.’
Olivia knew she didn’t mean La Tasse.
CHAPTER
17
Watching Dame Elizabeth as Raimund escorted her past Edouard and Christiane’s room to the archive entrance, Olivia decided, was like watching a replay of her own introduction to that magical world, only with a geriatric in the starring role.
The old lady fai
rly skipped with excitement. Sapphire-blue eyes glittering in the dim light. Nose twitching like an inquisitive rat as she surveyed her surrounds.
‘Is this it?’ she asked when they reached the end of the hall.
Olivia glanced at Raimund. She didn’t know how much he had told her while he was changing her dressing, but from Dame Elizabeth’s demeanour, she guessed quite a bit.
‘No.’
He held open the door for them. Dame Elizabeth passed through first, Olivia behind her. As she came level with Raimund, she stopped and put her hand to his chest.
‘You don’t have to do this.’
He looked at her hand and then back at her. No warmth existed in his eyes, but nor was there coldness, only the veiled stare of a man in hiding.
‘I do.’ He indicated the second door. ‘Come. We do not have time to waste. Gaston will be working on La Chanson. He may already know where Durendal lies.’
By the time Raimund reached the portcullis, Dame Elizabeth’s protestations at being carried like an invalid had faded to astonished silence. He set her gently to her feet and held her steady with one arm while Olivia operated the scanner. Next to him, she looked like a worked-up wiry gnome.
‘You have one task, Dame Thatcher, and that is to assist Olivia in solving La Chanson. We do not have time for distractions.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Dame Elizabeth, waving a dismissive hand as she strained to be let loose.
Although the portcullis had almost fully retracted, Raimund held her in place. ‘You understand?’
‘Don’t be so ridiculous. Of course I do. Olivia gave that idiot the first line of the riddle. Which, if he has any intelligence at all—something I seriously doubt—he would have solved by now.’ She tossed Olivia an irritated look. ‘And if you had deigned to call on me like a normal-mannered person, you would have it solved as well.’
Olivia blinked. ‘You know?’
‘Of course I know. I am, if you recall, the foremost scholar on the various orders of knights. Now, where’s this famous cup?’
Olivia cast Raimund a look over the top of Dame Elizabeth’s head and then shrugged. Until this point, her mentor had mentioned nothing about knowing who the Honourables were. Raimund’s mouth tightened slightly, though whether it was in disappointment of her ignorance or a wry response to Dame Elizabeth’s recalcitrance, she didn’t know. She hoped the latter. She didn’t want him to be disappointed in her. Ever.
Dame Elizabeth marched down the centre aisle with her head swivelling from side to side. ‘Rather good set-up. Must have cost a packet.’ She halted at one of the controlled-climate cabinets and peered in. ‘Fake, I suppose,’ she sniffed, pointing to Charlemagne’s lance.
Raimund steered her away. ‘No. It is real.’
Dame Elizabeth blinked and then looked towards Olivia for confirmation. She nodded and then tried not to laugh as Dame Elizabeth’s head swung around, anxious for a closer look, but Raimund kept her marching towards the study area.
‘If what you say is true,’ she snapped, shaking her arm from his grip, ‘these archives should be made available for study. It’s unthinkable to leave them in this place.’
Ignoring her rebuke, he pulled out a chair and hoisted her up on it, then dragged the aluminium case across the table and laid it open. ‘This is La Tasse.’
All argument about the archives was lost as Dame Elizabeth picked up the cup and cradled it in her hands. The deep wrinkles in her skin seemed to soften as her face slackened into silent amazement.
‘Look,’ said Olivia, pointing at the inscription.
‘There’s nothing wrong with my eyes, Olivia,’ she snapped, slapping away her hand. ‘I can see it perfectly well.’ She tilted the cup away from her, slowly turning it in her hands. After several minutes of intense scrutiny and throbbing impatience from her observers, she carefully set it down. ‘You must be commended for its discovery. I would never have believed in its existence if you had not shown me. This is quite miraculous.’
‘I know. It’s incredible, isn’t it?’ said Olivia, her irritation giving way to pride. ‘I always knew there had to be substance to the stories. Legends don’t grow from nothing. There’s always an element of truth, no matter how small.’
‘Quite.’ Dame Elizabeth turned her shrewd eyes on Raimund. ‘Olivia has told me the story of Guy of Narbonne and your family’s involvement. You’re the last of your line, I believe.’
‘Yes.’
She raised an eyebrow at Olivia. ‘He really is quite taciturn, isn’t he? A good thing in my opinion. Never did like chatty men.’ Her focus returned to Raimund. ‘You come from extraordinary stock.’
He nodded his acknowledgement of the compliment but remained silent.
Dame Elizabeth leaned her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her hands, her attention on Raimund absolute.
‘There is a story—never proven—of a plot against Louis organised by his own brother, Charles of Anjou.’
Olivia frowned. She had never heard of such a thing. ‘How do you know?’
‘Do not interrupt me! I really am beginning to wonder about your manners, young lady.’
Fierce blue eyes held hers, then Dame Elizabeth turned back to Raimund, leaving Olivia flushed and feeling about twelve years old. The old lady continued her narrative.
‘Charles was an ambitious and ruthless man. His brother had twice prevented him from accepting Sicily from Pope Innocent IV and had forced him to give back the County of Hainault after it was granted to him by Margaret II of Flanders. Then his religious zealot brother’s first effort at crusading ended in disaster. Rather humiliating for a man who prided himself on his military prowess, I should think. Despite what some scholars say about the Capetian bond, there was little love lost between them.
‘Charles hatched a plot to kill Louis. Something very few people know and has never been proven. Three Templar Knights—advisers to Louis as he built up his army—were paid handsomely by Charles to eliminate his brother, but the conspiracy was discovered. The three knights were bound and taken to a secret location where they were tortured for information and then killed. Louis kept the incident secret. He wanted his crusade, and for that he needed his brother. The men who had protected the king were sworn to silence. Louis called them his Honourables. The Grey Knight, it appears, was one of them.’
‘And where is their path?’ asked Raimund.
‘That, I cannot tell you. But it must lie near Louis’ now silted-up port of Aigues-Mortes. The executions took place during one of the king’s routine inspections, but it was written that their bodies were taken into the hills and buried deep underground.’
Olivia could contain herself no longer. ‘How do you know all this? I’ve never heard of it.’
‘There’s a letter in the Bibliothèque Nationale from one of the Honourables, Theobold, to a priest named Florent, outlining the events. However, there are several issues with its provenance. Those aware of its existence view it as a fake.’
‘Is it?’ asked Raimund.
Dame Elizabeth smiled, her face crinkling like a wizened apple. ‘It appears not.’
He turned to the map-covered wall. ‘The Honourables’ path will be the one the men took into the hills to dispose of the traitors.’ He took a step closer, peering at the map of Blancard properties. ‘There are only Vauvert and Gailhan. Vauvert was thoroughly inspected. Gailhan contains only rocks and forest.’
‘It might be somewhere you don’t own,’ said Olivia, joining him.
‘No. My family has been meticulous in retaining everything there is to do with Durendal and La Tasse. It must be Gailhan.’ He let out a long breath. ‘That property is two hundred hectares of rough terrain. We may never find what we are looking for.’
She touched his hand and then curled her fingers around his palm. ‘We’ll find it. I promise.’
‘How?’
‘There must be some other clue.’ She faced Dame Elizabeth. ‘The symbol on La Tasse. Have you seen it before?�
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‘No, but it’s very odd.’ She inspected the rim, her lips pursed. ‘Your Grey Knight would not have etched it without reason.’
‘Then there must be something we’ve missed. Something in the archives. A second clue.’ She squeezed Raimund’s fingers. ‘We’ll search again. With Dame Elizabeth helping us, we should find it.’
Using his free hand, Raimund tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. A tiny gesture that sent balloons of happiness floating in her chest, but then he caught himself and that hope-inspiring moment of intimacy was lost. His hand fell, the other pulled from her grip, and with his jaw tight, he walked stiffly to the study table.
‘Then we must begin.’
Dame Elizabeth was assigned the controlled-climate cabinets to audit and raided their contents like a child given the keys to a toyshop, albeit with a little more delicacy. Olivia went back to the shelves and the place she had abandoned on her last search for the symbol. Raimund, protective of his brother’s work, stayed in the study area to trawl the filing cabinets.
Before long, Dame Elizabeth’s continual mutterings, squawks of astonishment and huffs of outrage set Olivia’s nerves on edge. Each noise made her look up in hope that the old lady had found something, only for her heart to sink when she realised it was yet another of her irrelevant utterances. Raimund, she noticed, did the same. The constant interruptions tore her already tissue-thin concentration to shreds, and she had to force herself to keep her mind on the pages of the manuscripts she opened.
After two hours, she slid her book back onto the shelf but didn’t pull out another. Despite her protestations to Raimund that they would find what they sought, with each passing hour Olivia’s confidence sank a little more, and she began to question the wisdom of their search. Perhaps their time would be better spent at Gailhan, scouring the land for a trace of the Honourables’ path.
Raimund glanced up as she left her position to circle the room and inspect once again the paintings Patrice had hung. She threw him a tight smile and held up empty palms to indicate she had nothing and was taking a short break.
