The French Prize

by Cathryn Hein

  Lunch was superb. Feeling greedy but unable to help herself, she’d eaten two slices of tart and a double helping of salad, then regretted it when Raimund pulled two toffee-topped crème brûlée from the basket and handed her a spoon.

  She leaned back against the chair, rubbing her stomach. Food, half a glass of wine and quiet conversation had left her feeling relaxed and more than a little drowsy.

  She eyed the brûlée with dismay. ‘Oh, I couldn’t.’

  Raimund pushed it towards her. ‘I do not think it would be wise to return dessert uneaten. Christiane would be very offended, and it does not pay to upset her.’

  ‘Captain Blancard, are you telling me you’re scared of your godmother?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Olivia giggled. He had answered so soberly it had to be the truth. Her opinion of Christiane rocketed.

  ‘I can’t imagine you being afraid of anyone.’

  ‘You have not experienced Christiane at her finest. Please, Olivia. Eat. After lunch there’s something I’d like to show you.’

  The dessert, like the rest of the meal, was delicious, but only added to her sleepiness. Although she tried to hide it, Raimund caught her yawn.

  ‘You are tired.’

  ‘I’m fine. Just a little overwhelmed, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes. For someone who has not seen them before, the archives must seem incredible.’

  Olivia surveyed the shelf closest to them, abundant with historic riches. Incredible, amazing, breathtaking. The archives were all that and more. She shook her head, marvelling yet again at the sight before returning her attention to Raimund.

  ‘Have they always been here?’

  ‘No. They were scattered across many properties, hidden in cellars and libraries and secret compartments. My ancestors felt it unwise to keep them all in one place. It was my father who saw the need to consolidate. He recognised their dispersion made them almost impossible to study. He believed that was the single greatest factor in the continued loss of La Tasse.’

  Perhaps Alain Blancard had been right, but she had managed to find La Tasse without the help of the archives. Although she’d be willing to gamble a year’s salary that she could have found it twice as fast had she been granted access.

  ‘So he brought it all here?’

  ‘Not all at once. It was first housed in a secure storage facility near Plan de Campagne, but that proved too inconvenient so my father bought this house.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘And then we began to dig. That was twenty years ago. I was twelve and Patrice was ten. It was very hard work, but we thought it was an adventure, like in Jules Verne’s Voyage au Centre de la Terre. My father was Professor Lidenbrock, I was Axel and Patrice was Hans.’

  ‘It must have been fun.’

  He stared at the wall, focused no longer on Olivia but on a different time, a carefree time.

  ‘Yes. It was,’ he said, then he blinked and looked down, and set his cutlery into the middle of his plate before looking at Olivia, a glow in his eye. ‘When I enlisted into the army I soon discovered all that excavation was excellent preparation. My superiors complimented me on my trench-digging ability. I was very fast.’

  Except for the day of their first meeting, this was the longest conversation she had ever held with him, although this was far more intimate than that day. As lunch progressed, as he spoke more and more, the mask he wore dropped and allowed the real Raimund to shine through. Olivia found this Raimund, with his spark of humour, gentle touch and quiet dignity, bewitching. A man with a personality as attractive as his exterior. It made her wish lunch could never end.

  She leaned forward and propped her chin on her hands. ‘Why is there a patch of white in your hair?’

  His brown eyes glinting, he curled his finger and beckoned her closer, as though the enormous secret he was about to divulge was in danger of being overheard. Despite them being the only two people in the room, Olivia obliged.

  He put his mouth close to her cheek, his breath sending delicious shivers down her back. His voice came low into her ear, with an odd American accent.

  ‘I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.’

  She jerked back in alarm, but Raimund simply grinned at her. It took a couple of beats for her mind to clack into gear, before she understood.

  ‘Raimund,’ she said, widening her eyes and feigning shock, her voice incredulous, ‘did you just make a joke?’

  His smile disappeared, blinking off like a blown light bulb. ‘Is that what you think of me? That I’m incapable of making a joke?’

  ‘No. I —’ Olivia floundered for the words, appalled that her gibe had been misconstrued. She slumped back in the chair, annoyed with herself and upset that her ribbing had broken the moment. ‘I was teasing. I didn’t mean anything.’

  He rubbed at his forehead, at the point above his left eye he favoured, as though attempting to wipe away a headache, or perhaps a memory. Then he dropped his hand and shifted in his seat to face her, leaning forward with his hands dangling between his knees and his fingertips lightly touching.

  ‘Forgive me. Of course you were.’ He sighed. ‘It’s a day for apologies, I fear.’

  There was no denying it, the man had class. Barrel loads.

  ‘It’s turning out that way,’ she said. ‘No more, agreed?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed.’ He paused, the corner of his mouth twitching. ‘Unless, of course, it’s required.’

  Olivia rolled her eyes in exasperation.

  He pointed to his head. ‘The white hairs mark the place where I was shot.’

  That simple sentence brought her back upright. ‘Shot?’ Her palm went to her mouth. ‘Oh my God. What happened?’

  ‘I really cannot tell you.’ He smiled an apology before continuing. ‘But I can tell you that my hair was shaved during treatment. When it grew back it was white, in line with the scar. It was not a serious wound, but I now possess a small groove in my head. Would you like to feel?’

  Raimund had just invited her to touch him. There was no way in hell she would say no. She reached out and brushed her fingers against his hair. Despite its short length, it was soft, silken against her skin.

  ‘You may press firmer. It doesn’t hurt.’

  She increased the pressure, her heartbeat strengthening with it. Sure enough, she felt it. A furrow, as though the bullet had burned its outline in his scalp. She swallowed, realising how close he had come to death. How, by some scrap of fate, he was still breathing, with life pulsing from him, turning her breath shallow and her skin warm. She couldn’t take away her fingers.

  ‘You could’ve been killed,’ she said, her voice husky with emotion.

  He leaned back, fracturing the tiny but powerful connection, and shrugged. ‘I’m a soldier. That is the risk I take.’

  And a risk Olivia knew she never wanted him to take again. Ever.

  He stood and began to tidy the plates, ordering her to sit when she tried to help. She was happy to oblige. There was something very becoming about a domesticated Frenchman, but then, there was something very becoming about Raimund.

  ‘Come,’ he said when lunch was packed away and the basket filled with their dirty dishes. He held out his hand to her. ‘There’s something you must see.’

  She let him hoist her out of the chair, momentarily savouring the feel of his palm against hers. He had strong hands, practical hands, but hands capable of tenderness and delicacy when required. Her bathed and dressed wounds had taught her that.

  He led her to the study area and placed a stool at her side, telling her to sit. She did so, watching in bemused interest as he cleared the coffee table, hauled it out of the way then began rolling up the rug underneath.

  As soon as she saw the steel door she was on her feet.

  ‘This is where we keep our most precious item,’ said Raimund, squatting at the edge and twirling a combination lock. ‘This lock is not the most secure, but with the other security m
easures I did not deem it necessary to fit a biometric scanner.’

  Olivia crouched by his side, instantly on alert, the drowsy effects of lunch gone. Sunk into the concrete floor was a safe. Not a huge safe—only one metre by half a metre—but a solid one. As he heaved on the door, Raimund’s arms bulged beneath his shirtsleeves.

  ‘It was not designed for ground installation,’ he said, bracing the open door against the edge of an armchair. ‘But my father believed it was adequate for our purpose.’

  She leaned forward, eager to inspect the contents. The safe comprised two compartments separated by a steel shelf. One was empty. The other contained a small steel box. Raimund lifted it out and then carried it to the table in the study area, Olivia tracking behind, unable to suppress her excitement.

  She peered around his arm, staring at the box. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Wait.’

  He fiddled with the clasps—simple hook and lever mechanisms—and then released the lid. He appraised her, a small smile playing on his lips.

  ‘You are a very funny person, Olivia.’

  She frowned, unsure if this was a compliment or not. ‘In what way?’

  ‘Everything you feel is expressed in some manner. In your face, your eyes, your movements. It’s very easy to know what you are thinking.’

  A horrible hot, creepy flush crawled its way up Olivia’s neck. She’d had myriad thoughts about Raimund over the last two months. Some churlish, some downright X-rated, and some so soppily pathetic they made puppy love look serious. The thought that he might have interpreted them all was humiliating.

  She would have to learn how to keep her thoughts hidden. And fast.

  ‘I have embarrassed you.’

  She forced a smile, pretending composure. ‘Not at all. I’ve been told that many times.’

  And she had. By her family mostly, but an old boyfriend had once told her the same thing. Probably why he’d dumped her given that she’d thought he was incredibly selfish in bed, and worse, that his theory regarding the political machinations behind the Sixth Crusade lacked academic rigour.

  ‘Anyway, I thought we agreed on no more apologies?’

  ‘Only if they were not warranted.’ He returned his attention to the box, drawing Olivia’s eyes with him.

  Inside, folded in a fine linen cloth, was a book-shaped object. With care, he lifted it out and placed it on the table, then peeled away the cloth.

  As the object was exposed, Olivia’s breath came in jerky rasps.

  It was a codex, but a codex like no other. The cover—an exquisitely embossed and tooled artwork—appeared to be made of gold embedded with semi-precious stones, the craftsmanship of astonishing mastery.

  In the centre of the front panel reclined a central figure. In his right hand he held a sword pointing upright. In his left, he held a bible, and at his feet lay a horn. Above him, swirling through delicate filigreed arches, were four winged angels, while below lay the bodies of six slain Saracens.

  ‘Roland,’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes. He is unmistakable.’ Raimund handed her a pair of curator’s gloves. ‘You may wish to use these.’

  Olivia glanced at him.

  He nodded, his expression impassive, but there was a tremor of prescience in the air, a contagious tension that made her skin prickle.

  ‘Open it.’

  Olivia pulled on the gloves, her fingers clumsy in their haste. Gingerly, she undid the codex’s ornately worked clasps, and then, with infinite care, turned the heavy top cover and regarded the first page. It was in Occitan, written in faded ink on vellum with only a small illustration flourishing the opening letter. She read aloud, translating the first line into English.

  Suddenly she felt dizzy, as though she were about to faint. She stepped away from the book, staring at it as if it was written in poison.

  This book—this unbelievably precious book—didn’t belong here. It belonged in the Bibliothèque Nationale or the Bodleian Library or Trinity College or anywhere in the damn world other than a glorified cellar in nowhereville, France. She shouldn’t even be breathing near it, let alone touching it. Priceless didn’t even begin to describe its value. It was, in every form, utterly precious. This was a treasure that ranked with the Lindisfarne Gospels, with the Book of Kells, with the Domesday Book. It did not belong here.

  ‘No.’ Her eyes felt anchored to the curling vellum. ‘It can’t be.’

  ‘It is.’

  She put her hand to her chest. Her heart was thumping hard. ‘But that’s impossible.’

  ‘It’s the Song of Roland, Olivia. This one predates the Oxford manuscript. It was given to Henri Bégon by Raymond IV of Toulouse in 1098 in gratitude for his help in taking Antioch, and has been in the family ever since. The cover is a sixteenth-century enhancement, of course.’

  Olivia had a strange urge to kneel down and cry, although why, she didn’t know. It was as if she could hear the codex summoning her, as though the vellum leaves were fluttering, whispering to her across the ages.

  Calling her to Durendal.

  Her eyes locked with Raimund’s, with the man who already possessed so much, with the man who held history in his palms, who held the secret to everything important in her life. A man who took more of her heart with every minute she spent with him. A man she could never refuse.

  He took a step towards her and cupped her face in his hands, his eyes burning like coals.

  ‘Help me, Olivia. For Patrice and all the others who have died before him, help me find Durendal.’

  CHAPTER

  6

  The words poured out of Olivia’s mouth, unstoppable. At that moment, with Raimund looking at her with passion and need flaming his eyes, she was incapable of denying him anything.

  His want wasn’t for her, it was for Durendal, but like a starving animal, she took it all the same. Drawing it from his skin, from his breath, from the hum of electricity throbbing in the air, and using it to feed her own desire.

  ‘I’ll help you,’ she said. ‘I’ll help you find Durendal.’

  He kept hold of her face, his eyes searching hers and for a brief, heart-stopping, breathless second she felt sure he would kiss her, but then he simply smiled, that luscious, sensuous mouth curling seductively, and released her from his grasp. Her skin felt cold where his hands had pressed, yet it burned as though scorched.

  ‘Thank you.’

  She stared at him, the cool mineral-scented air still and silent. Alone in their quiet subterranean sanctuary, but for the swirling presence of an emotion that set Olivia’s heart ablaze.

  His hand lifted a little, as though he was about to reach out once again for her. Then his mouth parted slightly and she heard the telltale soft intake of breath of someone about to speak. She waited, suspended by the moment, hopeful, wanting him to give in to what he so obviously felt.

  And then his brow furrowed, and, as if he had a deep headache, he touched at a point above his left eyebrow and rubbed it hard. When his hand dropped, all expression had left his face, transformed, once more, into the inscrutable soldier trained to give away nothing. He turned to the codex, and, without looking at her, closed the binding, gathered up the cloth and began to carefully rewrap it.

  ‘You’ll be well compensated, of course,’ he said.

  With his words, something deep inside her chest twisted. He had manipulated her as deftly as he had done the first day he’d walked into her lecture room at Oxford and offered her the chance to chase her dream.

  And it hurt.

  She set her jaw. She would not allow him to see her distress, not this time. His days of reading her were over. If he could learn to hide behind a mask, then so could she.

  ‘Of course,’ she replied, pleased to hear her voice was steady and matter-of-fact. ‘I would expect nothing less than remuneration commensurate with my expertise.’

  His hands stilled, though he did not look at her.

  ‘I would not leave you wanting, Olivia.’

  But he j
ust had.

  She pulled off her cotton gloves and casually tossed them on the table, then picked up the aluminium case housing La Tasse. She tried not to look at the codex, slowly disappearing under cloth and soon to be deposited back in the ground. For some reason it felt tainted now, as if the cover’s beautiful gold had rubbed away and exposed a base made of lead. He’d used it to seduce her, to garner a promise of help, and she couldn’t help but feel resentful towards it, despite the absurdity of feeling emotive about an inanimate object.

  She unclipped the clasps and opened the case lid. La Tasse would give her something to focus on, something to keep her mind from her crushed hopes.

  ‘Our first step is to uncover the inscription,’ she said, deliberately giving her voice professional distance, as though she were discussing a project with one of her undergraduates. ‘We can’t make any progress without it.’

  Raimund smiled at her. ‘But not using a fork.’

  She blinked. He was trying to make another joke, as if he knew he had caused offence and wanted her back on his side. It was a wasted effort. Her gullible days had ended. Olivia had too much self-worth to let any man abuse her emotions for his own ends. She’d suffered that humiliation once before, in her pre-Oxford days, at the hands of an ambitious colleague she’d been unwise enough to fall for, and sworn it would be the last. The relationship had cost her a position she’d coveted. Her grandmother and mother hadn’t instilled self-belief in her for it to be ruined by the wrongful schemes of men. Or women, for that matter.

  She might be foolish at times, but she wasn’t stupid.