The French Prize

by Cathryn Hein

  ‘It’s beautiful after the darkness.’

  ‘Yes.’ She took a deep breath, inhaling the aroma of summer and then released it. ‘I think I’ll eat well tonight.’

  ‘I’ll telephone Christiane to tell her to make something special.’ He touched her face. ‘We have much to celebrate.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, lovingly pressing her cheek into his hand as she quashed the thought that what they would be celebrating was the destruction of her life’s goal. Durendal wasn’t lost to her yet. Neither was Raimund. ‘More than I ever imagined.’

  Raimund helped her down the larger boulder then let her go to make the jump from the lower rock. In a second they were both standing on the dry grass. Olivia dumped her backpack and then hunkered down to hunt inside for her bottle of water. It was in her hand and halfway out of the pack when she caught a glimpse of colour out of the corner of her eye.

  She looked up.

  The bottle tumbled to the dirt.

  ‘Hello, Doctor Walker.’

  Perched on a small rock in the shade of the mound, with a pistol casually pointed in her direction, was Gaston Poulin.

  Raimund whirled, his body tense, half-crouched in an attack position. With lightning speed he flicked the quick-release clips of his rucksack. It fell to the ground with a dusty thud. At the sight of the gun, he stiffened a little, but his body remained coiled, muscled, leonine.

  ‘Stand behind me, Olivia.’ No emotion coloured his voice. He did not look at her. The order was there for her to obey without question.

  Gaston’s eyes narrowed at Raimund, but he otherwise appeared as tensely controlled as his nemesis. ‘It would be prudent to remain where you are, don’t you think, Doctor Walker? I would not wish you to suffer …’ He chuckled in a way that turned Olivia’s insides liquid. ‘An unfortunate accident.’

  Without taking his eyes off Raimund, he rose and walked slowly towards them, stopping several metres away, a distance too far for Raimund to have any chance of launching an attack.

  Sweat drenched Olivia’s body. A faint breeze blew, turning it icy cold. Anxiety uncoiled in the pit of her stomach, snaking into her chest and turning it tight with fear for Raimund. Trembling, unsure what to do, she stood, wanting to slide closer to him, to position herself in front of him like a human shield. Gaston would have no hesitation in shooting his enemy, but perhaps he would think twice about firing at a woman.

  She glanced at Raimund. He stood unnaturally still, his focus on Gaston. His expression remained impassive but she knew his soldier’s mind would be measuring his opponent, formulating plans for attack, calculating how to eliminate the threat they faced. The danger she faced. For she understood now, in his mind, her safety would always be paramount. Even if protecting her cost him his life.

  ‘How did you find us?’ asked Raimund in French, his voice deep and calm.

  Gaston smiled, the curl of his lip turning his face feral. He flicked a glance at Olivia, letting his eyes stray only momentarily from Raimund. His tone was haughty, taunting them with his cleverness.

  ‘Simple. I followed the Honourables’ path.’

  ‘How did you know it led here?’ interrupted Olivia. It had taken them hours of laborious research, the help of an expert, and the destruction of a thirteenth-century painting to pinpoint Durendal’s location. Simple didn’t begin to describe the process. Gaston wasn’t that brilliant. He had to have followed them.

  ‘A process of elimination, Doctor Walker. You must remember the descendants of Roland have always kept a close watch on their enemy. The Blancards own many properties, all with associations to their long history. Vauvert I dismissed with little thought. Here, though, had many possibilities. All I had to do was wait for you to confirm my suspicions. Cunning, don’t you think?’

  ‘Amateur detective work,’ she said, planting her hands on her hips. The gall of the man astonished her.

  ‘Olivia,’ warned Raimund.

  ‘Do I detect some academic jealousy, Doctor Walker?’ Gaston cocked his head to one side. ‘I’m sure you thought you were the only one capable of locating Durendal. I’m so sorry to disappoint you, but often the simple schemes are the most ingenious.’

  ‘You haven’t found it yet.’

  ‘Ah, but it’s only a matter of time, is it not?’

  The satisfied smirk dropped from his face. His expression turned menacing, his eyes glowing with malice. The gun moved from Raimund to Olivia. His eyes skipped between his two captives, alert to any movement from either of them.

  Olivia’s defiance evaporated under his threat. Her eyes fixed on the small black hole at the end of the barrel, hypnotised by its deadly nothingness. Her head reeled. An odd keen vibrated in her throat. It sounded distant, as if made by an animal in the forest.

  ‘Now, let me offer you a choice which is also ingenious for its simplicity. You will lead me to Durendal or you will die.’ His focus locked on Raimund. ‘It would be terrible to see someone as lovely as Doctor Walker lose part of her head, don’t you think?’

  The muscles in Raimund’s jaw were rigid, but he reacted to the taunt with murderous iciness. ‘And my response is equally simple. Touch her and you will die.’

  ‘How noble, but you are no knight, Raimund. No Blancard ever was. You only play at it with your army and Legionnaires. You’re nothing, like every Blancard before you.’ His gaze swung back to Olivia. ‘Take me to Durendal.’

  Olivia closed her eyes. Every cell screamed for her to obey but she would rather die than let this monster have his prize. She had to refuse. There was no other way.

  And if he fired, perhaps her sacrifice would give Raimund his chance to attack.

  She turned to the man she loved, her knight, her world, and held his eyes, letting him know that this was for him. That she could be just as brave as he.

  ‘I love you,’ she mouthed and then, without waiting for his reaction, turned to face Gaston.

  Her voice was strong. Her back straight. ‘No.’

  Raimund let out an agonised roar.

  Gaston’s eyebrows lifted, but then he sighed deeply, as if amazed by her stupidity, and calmly squeezed the trigger.

  CHAPTER

  21

  The shot sent the forest birds screeching. Olivia’s heart rose so far in her chest she thought it was about to burst out of her throat. But it wasn’t her heart that came out, it was a scream.

  Raimund was on his knees, one hand across his stomach, the other propped stiffly, stopping him from falling face first onto the dry grass and dirt. His head was down. His back was hunched. The sinews of his arm looked like wires.

  She lunged for him, falling to her knees and cupping his face, calling his name, desperate to hear his voice, to see life and hope in his eyes.

  He raised his head to look at her, pain dug into the lines around his eyes and mouth.

  ‘Olivia.’ His head dropped again, as though the effort of saying her name had used too much energy.

  She kissed his hair, touched his cheeks, held her mouth close to his ear. ‘It’ll be okay. You’re strong. Too strong to die.’ The metallic scent of blood, the harrowing sound of his breaths, choked her throat. ‘Raimund, please. You have to hang on. I love you.’ She clung to him. ‘Please!’

  Tears she couldn’t control washed her skin. Panic and fear took over her senses. She fought for control. He’d been shot. She had to do something. Still clinging to him, she dared a look towards his stomach. His palm was pressed hard against the wound and he seemed incapable of moving so she could help. Only his back heaved with either agony or the sheer effort of inhaling and exhaling. His breathing was hoarse and tortured and his skin felt clammy.

  Then he raised one leg, planted it on the ground and heaved up his body until he stood, unsteadily, his left arm still wrapped across his stomach. Olivia clutched at his right arm, vainly trying to stop him moving. Blood stained his t-shirt. A blossom of black against the khaki. His focus changed to Gaston.

  ‘Please, Raimund.’ She pl
ucked at his loose arm, horrified by that ever-expanding tide of black. ‘You have to lie down. You’re making it worse.’

  He took a step forward.

  Hysteria took over. She screamed at him, yanking on his arm, holding him back.

  ‘Stop it! Don’t you do this. Not again. I won’t let you. I won’t!’

  ‘You are either brave or stupid,’ said Gaston, aiming the gun at Raimund’s head.

  Despite Olivia’s iron grip on his arm, Raimund managed to drag himself another step forward. A burst of blood soaked his t-shirt and the next step sent him stumbling. He turned his head towards her. His espresso eyes were dark. No reproach existed in their depths but she knew where the blame lay. His mouth moved, but no sound emerged. Then his eyelids drooped and he fell.

  Her howl ripped the summer quiet. She dropped to his side, her eyes flicking between his face and that terrifying red bloom. He was still conscious, but barely.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she told him, forcing steel into her voice. ‘You’ll be okay. Today isn’t your day, Raimund. You hear me? Today is not your day.’ She took two deep breaths. ‘I need you to stay still. I’m going to try to stop the blood.’

  She glanced at the wound. His arm had dropped to his side, exposing a small hole in his t-shirt. She didn’t know very much about bullets, but she told herself it couldn’t be that bad if the entry hole was that small. Flesh wounds appeared worse than they were. Lots of blood, not much damage. At least, she hoped that was the case.

  Gritting her teeth, she leaned over him and gently tugged at the saturated shirt, lifting it up over where she thought the entry point existed. There was too much blood to see clearly, but then Raimund groaned and a bubble of red burst from a hole in his stomach close to his waist. Determined not to frighten him, she suppressed the moan that rumbled in her throat when she saw that awful round of blood.

  ‘It’s only a small wound.’

  ‘No.’ The denial came out in croak. ‘Back.’

  Turning her head so he wouldn’t see her anguish, she closed her eyes. She understood now. The bullet was one of those deadly ones they talked about on TV cop shows. The sort that left an innocuous wound on entry but exploded on exit. She didn’t want to look at the damage, but knew she had to if she had any chance at all of saving him.

  She glanced at Gaston. The gun was loose at his side. He was smiling euphorically, as if Raimund’s injury had somehow left him blessed. But he seemed content to let her work, and that was what mattered.

  She scrambled on hands and knees to Raimund’s opposite side, to where the soil and grass was slick and sticky with coagulating blood. She knelt near his waist, knowing that to move him would cause him unbearable pain, but if an exit wound existed, she had to plug it.

  ‘I’m going to turn you, just a little bit. I need to check. Okay?’

  He made a noise she took for assent. Taking infinite care, she slid one hand under his backside and the other under his ribs, and then lifted gently. She didn’t need to raise his shirt to understand the mess the bullet had left. The pulpy outline of mangled flesh and burst of blood made it all too clear. Quickly, she lowered him back down and slid to his head, cupping his chin, and drawing his gaze to hers.

  ‘You’re going to be okay, I swear. I’m not going to let you die. Do you understand that? I won’t let that happen. I promise.’ She drew a shaky breath, drawing on a core of strength that came from her love for him. ‘But you have to help. You have to promise not to give up. I need you, Raimund. More than you could ever know. Don’t let me down.’

  Then she kissed him hard on the lips and went back to work. She had never believed a knife would give her such relief, but Raimund’s combat knife seemed like a godsend. However, her relief was short-lived. As soon as she reached for it, she felt the hard steel of a gun barrel dig into the back of her skull.

  ‘Please, Doctor Walker. It would not be wise to play heroine.’

  She didn’t stop what she was doing. Gaston didn’t frighten her. If he wanted to kill them both he could go right ahead, but while she still had breath, she would use it to try to save Raimund.

  The knife slipped easily from the sheath. The blade was incredibly sharp, slicing through the straps of Raimund’s webbing and then his t-shirt as if it were tissue paper. She cut away as much as she could, leaving cloth covering both wounds, and Raimund’s hand pressed against his stomach.

  From his webbing she pulled a canteen of water, then laid down the knife and ripped off her own shirt. Besides Raimund’s fatigue pants, there was nothing else she could use as padding. Working as fast as she could, she fashioned a tie from strips of cotton then balled the rest into two bundles.

  ‘I’m going to roll you a little,’ she said to Raimund. ‘I need to wash the wound and apply a compress which I’m going to tie in place.’

  His eyelids dropped slightly and she saw his jaw clench as he prepared himself for another onslaught of pain.

  It took too long for Olivia’s liking to remove the soiled shirt and strap the clean dressing in place, but when she’d finally finished, Raimund’s eyes seemed wider and more alert. Almost immediately, her makeshift compresses turned scarlet, but she hoped that in time, if he kept still, the worst of the bleeding would be staunched.

  Once more she crawled to his head, dragging the water canteen with her. She unscrewed the lid and held it close to his lips. He rolled his head away. Water spilled over his cheek.

  ‘Is water bad?’

  ‘Oui.’ It sounded like a sigh.

  She stroked his forehead. There was so much she didn’t know and she fretted that her amateur half-panicked ministrations would only make things worse for him.

  ‘Is there anything else I can do? Anything that will help?’

  His eyes closed. ‘Run.’

  She smiled and leaned down to kiss his wet cheek. ‘Not a chance in hell and you know it.’

  ‘Portable. Birao,’ he whispered.

  She glanced at Gaston. He had picked up the discarded knife and retreated to a rock, where he sat, gun dangling between his knees, watching her closely. The phone was in her backpack. She needed to figure out a way to distract Gaston so she could make the call.

  ‘Have you finished?’ Gaston asked loudly in English.

  She glared at him, refusing to dignify his question with a response. She would only be finished when Raimund was in a hospital and the doctors attending him were swearing to her that he would live.

  ‘Perhaps then it’s time to return to the matter of Durendal. After all, that’s why we’re all here.’ He eyed her, and she could almost see the calculations he was making. ‘You will take me to Durendal now, I think.’

  ‘Go find it yourself.’

  He walked towards her, until he stood at Raimund’s feet, looking down at them both as though they were a pair of difficult children come to spoil his day.

  ‘Ah, but I’m not so stupid, Doctor Walker. You only recited part of La Chanson. Perhaps there’s a danger of which I’m unaware. It would be foolish of me to proceed without that information, don’t you think?’

  ‘Shoot me. Kill us both. I don’t care. But you’ll have to find the sword without my help.’

  His expression turned to one of contempt. ‘You try my patience, Doctor Walker.’

  Raimund made a noise. Fear curdled in her stomach. She leaned in close. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His hand reached for hers and gripped it with surprising strength.

  ‘Show him.’

  ‘I can’t leave you.’

  He began to pant with the effort of speaking. ‘Save yourself.’

  ‘Yes, Doctor Walker. Why don’t you try to save yourself?’

  ‘Because I’m not interested in saving myself, only Raimund. But that’s something you couldn’t possibly begin to understand.’

  ‘In that case I can find only two solutions to our little problem.’ He raised the gun and pointed it at Raimund’s head. ‘I can either kill your lover right now or I can make a deal with you.’
He smiled, as if this was just a casual conversation between friends. ‘I’m not as unreasonable as you assume. Take me to Durendal and I will let you go. Perhaps you’ll return in time to rescue Raimund. There’s a chance he will die, of course. But there’s also a chance you’ll be able to save him.’ He cocked his head to one side. ‘A reasonable compromise, don’t you think?’

  The grip on Olivia’s hand tightened. Raimund was trying to speak but she couldn’t make out the words. She held her ear against his mouth.

  ‘La Tasse. Pit. Run.’

  It was only four words but Raimund would not have wasted breath on useless ones. It was a plan of sorts, an instruction to her. She closed her eyes, thinking. Gaston didn’t know she had the cup. The odds were poor, but perhaps, in the dark, if she led him close to the pit she could use it to lure him into it. She turned and held her mouth against his ear, speaking quietly, not wanting Gaston to hear what she was saying.

  ‘I don’t think he’ll follow me into the dark.’

  He released her hand and pressed a finger against one of the pouches attached to his webbing.

  ‘A decision, Doctor Walker.’

  Following Raimund’s direction, she unclipped the pouch fastening and reached inside. The Cyalume sticks. She pulled out a handful.

  ‘Cyalume sticks,’ said Gaston, exultation widening his eyes. ‘So there is a cave.’

  She glanced at Raimund. He beckoned her back with a look. His breath was laboured, frightening her with its rattle.

  ‘La Tasse. Pit. Run. Fast.’

  He didn’t need to tell her any more. She understood now. They had a chance and she would take it. There wasn’t much time and Raimund knew it.

  ‘I love you,’ she whispered. Then she stood, stuffed the Cyalume sticks into her front pocket and walked towards her backpack. Without looking up, or removing the aluminium case, she dug her hands into the pack and unclipped the latches securing the lid. The confines of the bag didn’t allow for a wide parting, but she had more to worry about than breaking a piece off the cup.