The French Prize

by Cathryn Hein

  She gazed around her, expecting more than this. A library filled with dust-covered folios perhaps or even an office piled high with chests, but the room in which they stood was very much like her guest chamber. The floor was made of square, lightly polished, ochre-coloured tiles, and the walls painted a simple off-white. A bare timber-and-wrought-iron double bed protruded from one wall, while opposite, an antique mirrored wardrobe helped cast light around what proved to be a windowless room. To the left was another solid-looking timber door. Raimund strode towards it.

  Another key was drawn from his pocket, this one made of shiny brass, its lustre betraying its importance. He paused, the key slotted but unturned in the lock.

  Olivia held her breath and waited but Raimund made no move.

  ‘You are about to behold something that no one, bar a Blancard, has seen before.’ His espresso eyes held hers, intense and fathomless. Eyes that trapped, seduced, and yet revealed nothing in return but loyalty to an ancient family. ‘I need to know I can trust you, Olivia.’

  She swallowed, the fervency of his gaze filling her with awe, electrifying her, making her mind come alive with possibilities. Behind that door, if what he had told her was true, a treasure-trove of inestimable importance awaited. Records that stretched back to Guy of Narbonne, possibly further. A collection that would leave her head spinning, her heart soaring, and her fingers itching with the urge to touch, to feel history come alive beneath their tips.

  And then the reality of his words hit home.

  ‘You’re joking, surely? You, the person who’s done nothing but lie to me from the very start, are asking me if I can be trusted?’ She rolled her eyes and shook her head in disbelief of his nerve. ‘Give me a break.’

  The fervour in Raimund’s expression didn’t change. If anything, it intensified.

  ‘I’m serious, Olivia. My family has kept these records for over a thousand years. No one but a Blancard has been permitted access. You are the first. But you must promise to never reveal their whereabouts or even their existence. I must have your word.’

  Olivia sobered. He was right. His decision to show her the archives must have been momentous. It did not deserve derision. But to never reveal their existence, to allow such a treasure to languish unexamined, unresearched, unknown to the world? That went against everything she stood for, everything she was, the principles she valued and defended.

  ‘Your word, Olivia.’

  Her heartbeat became a dense pound. ‘I can’t.’

  He stared at her, the chill of his disappointment sending cold quivers up her back. Without another word, he pulled the key from the lock and slipped it into his pocket. She swallowed, hating her stupid ideals. Wanting to defy them.

  He marched to the door and held it open, then swept an arm towards the hall. ‘Olivia, if you please.’

  She stared back at the locked door, the gateway to a thousand years of history. A history she was about to forsake.

  ‘Please, Raimund.’ Her voice cracked and she almost sobbed. ‘I can’t promise. You know I can’t.’

  Although his expression softened, his demand remained. ‘I’m sorry, but you must.’

  She closed her eyes. What would it cost her to promise? Whatever it was, it would be nothing compared to what she would suffer if she never saw the archives. A few simple words, a simple promise, and she would know. She might not be able to tell, but she would know.

  She took a deep breath and nodded. ‘You have my word.’

  Raimund bent towards her in a strangely old-fashioned bow that almost made her smile. ‘Thank you,’ he said, and it came out as though he meant it.

  Then he returned to the door, inserted the key, and rotated it in the lock.

  As the door swung into the room, Olivia broke out in a sweat.

  CHAPTER

  4

  Raimund held the door open for her. ‘Be careful. The steps are very steep.’

  Olivia peered through the doorway. Steep was an understatement. The narrow stairs appeared almost vertical, dropping into shadow as they curled to the right. To her surprise, the staircase was made of timber, held together by a steel frame bolted to the wall. On the right-hand side, supported by risers extending from the frame, was a tubular polished steel handrail. The overall impression was of a strong but temporary fitting, like shiny new scaffolding. Hefty but easily dismantled.

  For some reason, she’d expected oozing damp stone, and the musty smell of parchment, mould and age. She realised now that was a ridiculous notion. They were still one floor above street level and Raimund had already explained the house had been rebuilt after an earthquake in the early 1900s.

  ‘Since Patrice’s death I’ve upgraded security,’ said Raimund, anticipating her question. ‘And safety. Access to the archives was previously by rope ladder.’

  ‘Very Tomb Raider.’

  ‘Non. Very much my father. He enjoyed the sense of adventure.’

  Olivia raised an eyebrow at him. ‘And you don’t?’

  ‘I would not wish to die so ignobly.’ He indicated the landing. ‘Please.’

  She stepped through the door onto the small square timber platform and halted, eyeing the steep decline and shadows. Suddenly, a wash of vertigo had her reaching for the wall. No one knew where she was, who she was with. Friends and colleagues thought she was on an extended holiday to Australia, tanning herself on some secluded tropical beach. For the last two months, she hadn’t telephoned, emailed or otherwise engaged with anyone beyond calls home to her parents. They assumed she was still happily in Oxford and Olivia hadn’t done anything to correct the notion. All she’d done, with unfettered determination and bloody-mindedness, was search for La Tasse. And she’d loved every second.

  But that was before people started shooting at her, before Raimund disclosed his outrageous intention, before he’d led her to the edge of a secret staircase in a nondescript house in a sleepy Provencale village. A place where the only people aware of her existence were an eccentric elderly couple and a man, who, although forswearing torture, had only the night before made no apologies for his capacity to kill. A man who right now stood behind her, watching with unfathomable dark eyes.

  She took a deep breath and waited for the vertigo to fade, then straightened and squared her shoulders. Life was full of risks. Only those with the courage to take chances achieved their goals. If it meant finding Durendal, Olivia possessed the heart for anything, although it never hurt to be cautious.

  She beamed brightly at Raimund. ‘You go first.’

  He stared at her, hard, his jaw rigid, as if he’d read her mind and was disgusted by it. But whether it was disgust at her for thinking him capable of hurting her or at himself for giving her that impression, she didn’t know. Whichever it was, it made her feel guilty.

  She turned away, her fake smile flattening, and gripped the rail. She’d go first. He’d broken a thousand years of secrecy to allow her access to the archives. The least she could do was trust him.

  His hand went to her shoulder, stopping her from taking the first step. ‘I will lead.’

  ‘No. It’s okay.’ Then she twisted around and smiled at him, this time genuinely. ‘I trust you, Raimund. Truly.’

  The rigidity in his jaw eased a little, softening the planes of his face, and for the hundredth time, Olivia thought how handsome he was. While his soldier’s granite stoicism might be necessary for the army, in the ordinary world it made him seem inhuman and cold. But that was not the real Raimund. His feelings might be hidden but they existed. His semi-breakdown in the gîte had proven it. And it was that imperfect, tortured man who stirred her most.

  He squeezed her shoulder a little and let go. ‘As you wish. But if you change your mind there’s a landing further down where we may change position.’

  She nodded and then, with her hand firm on the rail, took her first tread towards the archives.

  Thirty steps later, they reached the landing and yet another door. This one was smooth, and when Oliv
ia pressed her palm against it, she felt the cold solidity of steel. There were no handles or keyholes, but flush against the adjacent wall was a rectangular metal panel which did possess a keyhole, albeit small.

  Raimund stopped in front of it, and from under his shirt, pulled out a chain on which a thin key was threaded. In silence, he unlocked the panel and swung it open. Recessed in the wall was not a keypad as Olivia had assumed, but a strange-looking device similar to a camera lens. Leaning slightly forward, he stared at it for a few seconds. Below the lens, a green light began to flash.

  ‘Biometric scanner,’ he said, facing her.

  As he spoke, a hollow clunk and then a sound like sliding steel barrels surrounded them. The light on the scanner switched to steady green.

  She let out a whistle. ‘Impressive.’

  Raimund pushed open the door. ‘No. Necessary.’

  ‘Do Christiane and Edouard know about this?’ she asked as she ducked under his arm and stepped through.

  Overhead, fluorescent lights flickered and hummed into life. She sized up the doorway. The jamb was at least six inches thick and steel all the way around, bolted into what was now rock instead of brick. Deep holes indicated where the bolts secured the door. They had travelled beyond ground level.

  ‘Yes and no.’ He waited until she had moved down a few steps before closing the door. The bolts slid back into position, followed by a final locking thunk. ‘They are aware there is secure underground storage, but they know it belongs to the family and that it’s not their business.’

  Olivia raised her eyebrows. ‘They’re not curious?’

  He shrugged in that uniquely French manner. ‘Perhaps, but they know not to ask. The Rosecs understand discretion.’ He indicated for her to move on.

  The steps were rock now, carved from the ground. Although the work was thorough, not all were even and there was no rail. She kept her hand against the wall for balance. It was surprisingly dry.

  ‘So this is your house, not theirs?’

  ‘Correct.’

  Olivia wondered exactly how many properties he owned. She knew of two already, and Patrice must have lived somewhere. Raimund had the educated voice and, of course, the clothes of a well-to-do man, but she had not taken on this job without decent recompense and biometric technology and steel doors cost money. Raimund, she was beginning to suspect, wasn’t just well-to-do but extremely wealthy.

  ‘You must have a great deal of trust in them to let them stay here, though. Who are they?’

  For a few steps Raimund didn’t reply, but then he spoke. From the tone of his voice, it was with reluctance, as though she’d asked one question too many yet manners dictated he answer.

  ‘My godparents.’

  ‘Really?’

  She found his response incongruous. The word ‘godparents’ conjured images of happy families and close friends and communities, whereas the impression she had of the Blancards was more insular. A family who kept themselves to themselves. A secretive family. A reflection of Raimund.

  To Olivia’s irritation, Raimund demonstrated again his uncanny knack of knowing what she was thinking. It had happened so often she’d come to the conclusion that the army had taught him some special skills, like the ability to read the fleeting micro-expressions that unconsciously crossed her face. How he did it this time, though, was a mystery. She had her back to him.

  ‘You make too many assumptions. We are not as you imagine. My family is —’ He drew in a breath as he caught the error in his normally perfect conjugation. ‘Was as normal as I imagine yours is.’

  ‘Most people’s families don’t have fabled swords and ancient vows in their backgrounds. Or hidden underground archives. Or a madman chasing after them.’

  For a long moment he didn’t respond, but when he did, his voice had changed. The icy determination in it left Olivia shivering.

  ‘No. But I promise you, that will soon end.’

  The descent progressed in silence. Olivia’s mouth twitched with the urge to ask more questions, to find out more about his family, about him, but she didn’t want to provoke him any further. The soldier was once more in control and Olivia didn’t like him.

  The steps ended, opening up into a man-made underground cavern with the appearance and atmosphere of a vaulted cathedral. The air was eerily still and smelled earthy, clean, as though the rock had filtered it pure but left behind a residual tang of minerals.

  There was still no sign of the archives.

  The ceiling was low and brushed Raimund’s dark hair as he walked across the dirt floor towards an unlit archway. The opening appeared black and ominous, as though a great mouth yawned open, ready to swallow them whole. A closed steel portcullis gave the mouth teeth, compounding the impression of a fearsome gaping maw.

  Olivia blinked a few times, casting the image from her mind. Her grandmother had always told her a fertile imagination was a wonderful asset, especially for a historian. It allowed them to think creatively, to imagine what closed minds could not, to develop brilliant theories that made others burn with jealousy. Her grandmother may have spoken the truth, but at that moment, Olivia could have done without the Hammer Horror imagery.

  He pointed to the right-hand wall. ‘Five metres behind that rock is Edouard’s wine cellar and above that, the garage. This cave —’ he used the French pronunciation, which made cave sound like ‘carve’ ‘— was dug parallel to the original, but further into the hill and with a separate entrance.’

  Olivia stared around her. Tool marks formed strangely beautiful asymmetric patterns on the roof and walls. The chamber had been dug by hand. The effort must have been phenomenal.

  ‘It must have taken ages.’

  ‘It did.’ He patted the wall, his mouth lifting with what Olivia recognised as deep pride. ‘Five years.’

  Her jaw dropped. ‘You did this?’

  ‘And Patrice and my father.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  He stopped at the arch and pointed upwards. ‘Proof.’

  She stood beside him, her head tilted. Above the arch, tooled in block letters, were the names Alain, Patrice and Raimund. Her eyes slid towards him. He was smiling slightly, as though the names had evoked something good in him, a happy memory, a touching recollection of familial love, and then it was gone. With a swift collapse of muscle, his face returned to his usual studied mask.

  Olivia reached out her fingers and gently took his hand. ‘I’m sorry.’

  For a brief moment he let her hold him. The revived pain that creased his features and thinned his mouth flickered and then was hidden quickly. With a light squeeze of her fingers, he pulled away. Patrice’s death had left scars that would never heal, though whatever emotion his father’s name summoned she didn’t know and now was not the time to ask.

  Without a word, he crouched down and pressed at a point low in the wall close to where the arch met the floor. There was no button or switch that Olivia could see, but immediately a camouflaged panel flipped open in the wall at eye level, exposing the lens of another biometric scanner. Raimund stood and then turned to look at Olivia.

  ‘Are you ready?’

  Abruptly, she remembered why they were there. Why they were deep underground in a carved-out cellar protected by hi-tech security devices and steel doors.

  The archives.

  Her pulse began to throb as anticipation gripped her. She felt the same way she did the first time she saw the magnificent spires of Oxford and realised the world was filled with possibilities and adventure. Except this was ten times more exhilarating. This wasn’t just a possibility. This was real.

  She grinned at Raimund. ‘You bet I’m ready.’

  He nodded, and then stared at the lens.

  Three clicks sounded as, one by one, a series of huge overhead hanging lights burst into brilliant illumination. Then slowly, like the gateway into Camelot, the portcullis began to rise.

  Raimund flourished an arm. ‘Et voilà. Les archives.’

  Olivi
a sucked a breath into lungs that felt at once incapable of inflation and yet too big for her chest. All over, her skin tingled, as if thousands of goosebumps were erupting over its surface at the same time. She stared and stared, her mouth wobbling between an idiotic grin and open-mouthed shock.

  As she surveyed the room in front of her, the insane idea that she’d clicked her heels and somehow transported herself to a library in Oxford or Berlin or Paris filtered into her brain. A strange noise erupted from her throat, and immediately she felt Raimund’s hand cup her elbow, as if he thought she was about to faint. But she wouldn’t faint, not in this place, not amongst these treasures.

  She had expected archive boxes, a few tables spread with maps and the odd diary. Perhaps some fake swords and reproduction artworks. But this … this was like the underbelly of a museum. The sort of storage facility that housed a collection’s overflow, the artefacts that didn’t fit into the public viewing rooms, or were off display and undergoing cleaning, restoration or study.

  The entire room was made of concrete—walls, floor, ceiling—like an air-raid bunker or deep underground carpark. Separated by a central aisle, row upon row of sturdy steel racking filled either side of the chamber. On the left were tall open shelves, each stuffed with books and artefacts and scrolls and cups and hundreds and hundreds of wonderful things that made Olivia’s mind overflow with excitement. On the right, squat glass cabinets, each with its own climate-control system, held more books and artworks and precious, beautiful items of incalculable value.

  She took a step closer. Her mouth still didn’t seem to know what to do with itself. She wanted to run around whooping and laughing and yet the sight before her made her jaw drop with awe.

  ‘Is it real?’

  ‘Yes, Olivia. It’s real.’

  She glanced at Raimund and pointed to the first shelf on the left. ‘May I?’

  He nodded, his espresso eyes softening to molten dark chocolate and a smile reflecting his pleasure in her reaction. ‘You may touch anything you wish.’