The French Prize

by Cathryn Hein

  And then there was the aluminium case. If Gaston had trailed them from Rognes, if Patrice had revealed the location of the archives, then he would have known his prize was within his grasp. Yet Gaston had appeared to give the case no thought, intent only on provoking his enemy, crowing his superiority.

  One thing was certain, he had not expected Raimund to win the fight.

  The bed was made when she padded out, its pristine, white top sheet turned down. Displayed on the end was a man-sized t-shirt with a flimsy dark-blue nightdress laid out alongside. Her discarded green dress was nowhere to be seen.

  She picked up the nightdress, recognising the feel of pure silk. The cloth slipped over her hand like a river, cool and inviting. She held it to her nose. It smelled clean and fresh, of pure, sweet air and washing powder. Like Raimund.

  Before she could change her mind, she stripped off the robe, picked up the dress and let it float over her head and settle on her body like a glossy sheath. Raimund had given her a choice of clothing, so she had decided. She just hoped it was the right choice.

  After a quick assessment of herself in the mirror, she settled under the crisp sheet and waited.

  The knock came ten minutes later. Soft, as though Raimund expected her to be already asleep. He smiled when he saw her in bed, then quietly moved across the room to her side. In one hand, he held a small box, the other, a glass of water.

  ‘You don’t have to creep about,’ she said, smiling at him sideways from the pillow. ‘I’m awake.’

  She wriggled up to prop herself against the bedhead as he set the box and glass down on the bedside table. ‘I did not want to disturb you.’

  ‘You didn’t.’ She patted a space on the bed near her knee. ‘Sit down.’

  He didn’t move.

  ‘I want to talk.’

  He pressed his fingers to his brow and rubbed, eyeing her from behind his cupped hand. ‘About what?’

  ‘Everything.’ She patted the bed again. ‘Just for a minute or two.’

  He hesitated, then did as she asked, but stiffly. As though it was against his better judgement, but felt it too impolite to say no.

  He indicated the box. ‘I bought you chocolates. Palets d’Or.’

  ‘I figured as much. Thank you.’

  ‘You are very welcome.’

  They lapsed into awkward silence. Outside, the sea breeze rose, rattling tree branches against the house, whistling through the eaves and gaps between the tiles.

  She reached out for his hand and tangled her fingers with his. He didn’t pull away, but his attention was on the window, at the view over the sequin-strewn Mediterranean.

  ‘Tell me about Gaston.’

  The question eased his tension. It was barely perceptible, but she noticed. The slight drop of his shoulders, the minute relaxation of the muscles of his jaw, the almost inaudible sigh. He answered as though reading from the summary of a dossier he had compiled on his enemy.

  ‘He comes from a wealthy family not unlike my own. Although, to their sorrow, the Poulins have had little contact with him since he abandoned his university degree. As a child, Gaston was brilliant. What you would call a prodigy. His family was very proud and they spoiled him unashamedly. He grew up believing he was special, more special than anyone else, which led one of his teachers to describe him as a borderline narcissist. The teacher was not alone in that assessment, yet much was forgiven because of Gaston’s phenomenal abilities. A not unusual situation.’

  ‘No,’ said Olivia. ‘Unfortunately.’

  ‘But at university he began to exhibit some disturbing behaviour. Behaviour which seemed inconsistent with someone so self-obsessed. He would spend hours studying, going for days without sleep, not eating or bathing. Although Gaston was well known for his charm, friends began to abandon him, complaining he would turn on them for no reason.’

  Olivia pulled the spare pillow across her lap and leaned on it, fascinated with Raimund’s story. ‘He developed schizophrenia?’

  It was not an unheard-of occurrence. The debilitating mental disorder was seen most commonly in young men.

  ‘From my reading on the subject, I do not believe so.’

  ‘Garden-variety madness?’

  He shrugged. ‘I do not know, but I discovered that it was around this time that his grandfather told him about his famous ancestor. The Poulins, like the Blancards, keep their history and their feud secret.’

  ‘Your families have fought over Durendal before?’

  ‘Yes, a number of times. Mainly in the beginning, after Roland’s son, Arnaud, grew old enough to fight, but my ancestors were not about to betray an oath to their king and always managed to prevail.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘From time to time another of Arnaud’s descendants would try their hand, believing they were the true heir. Resurrection of the feud in the early 1900s saw both families almost wiped out. Then war came. The world tried to destroy itself. Suddenly, a thousand-year-old mystery lost its imperative. The Blancards and Poulins made peace. And so it has lasted.’

  ‘Until now.’

  ‘Yes. Until now.’ He grimaced slightly, then resumed his narrative. ‘Gaston developed an obsession with Roland and Durendal. He withdrew from his economics studies and instead spent every moment researching his newly discovered history. His parents tried to compel him to see a doctor but he refused. The Poulins decided it was easier to indulge their beloved son and left him alone. Over time, they became more and more estranged. At present, they have no idea of his whereabouts, although they know he visits the various homes at his disposal and regularly accesses his bank accounts.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  He regarded their knotted fingers, then turned over Olivia’s hand and began to trace the long crease of her lifeline. She wasn’t sure if it was meant as an intimate gesture, but it felt like one. A thrill stole up her back and erupted in a rash of goosebumps.

  ‘I have made an effort to learn everything I can about Gaston Poulin.’ He looked up. ‘It’s important to know your enemy intimately.’

  The way he’d said intimately, uttering the word slowly after a slight pause while holding eye contact, triggered something. It lingered in the air, crackling and elemental. Uninterpretable thoughts flickered across his face. Every breath began to feel tight. Olivia’s lips parted.

  Raimund’s square gaze fell to her mouth.

  The finger trace ceased. His eyes drifted to the sea and then slid out of focus, as though he was looking inwards rather than out.

  ‘I wish Patrice had known you,’ he said quietly.

  Twice now he had commented on Patrice and her, on a relationship that would never be. It was a pointless wish, yet from his tone, he meant it, as though he wanted his brother to have what he could not.

  The realisation sent Olivia’s heart pounding. He wanted her. It was there all along as she had always known it was, but he was fighting it, hiding his feelings behind disinterest and professionalism.

  Ever since the gîte, since he let her peek under the stony veneer he so carefully maintained, tiny cracks had appeared. And, hour by hour, as they grew closer, as he gave away a little more of himself, the cracks widened. Soon, they would break apart. It was only a matter of time.

  All she had to do was be patient.

  He blinked and turned back to her, his inward contemplation over. He appraised her and then re-posed the question he had asked two days ago. Only this time, the intensity of his eyes told her the answer mattered.

  ‘Why is the sword so important to you?’

  It was difficult to know how to respond. The sword mattered on many levels. La Tasse was an extraordinary find, but it paled into insignificance against Durendal. Its discovery would put her in the realms of greatness, endow her with the academic respect and validation she craved, and wipe the haughty sneers from her detractors’ faces forever.

  Yet that wasn’t the real motivation for her passion. Like Raimund, her reason lay buried in
a graveyard, only in her case, the site was a dusty overgrown cemetery over ten thousand miles away.

  ‘Because of my grandmother. She died a long time ago, but it was her who made me who I am.’

  ‘She was a historian, like you?’

  The idea brought a ripple of melancholy. How wonderful if that had been the case. ‘No. She was a school teacher—or she was once. She had to give it up when she married my grandfather.’

  ‘A shame.’

  ‘Yes. It was. She loved teaching.’

  ‘And she taught you?’

  ‘Not officially, no. I went to the local primary school and then to boarding school in Sydney, but it was from her that I learned about Roland.’

  She smiled, thinking how thrilled Patricia Walker would have been to meet his descendant. With his intense, coffee-coloured eyes, soldier’s physique, and acute sense of honour, Raimund would have made a perfect modern-day paladin. One look at him and her grandmother would have held her chest and swooned.

  Like grandmother, like granddaughter. But then, they always were exceptionally close.

  ‘Even though she’d never been here, she loved French history. Not all of it, mind you. She hated the revolution—Robespierre gave her nightmares—but medieval French history she adored. I can see now she was a terrible romantic. Tales of knights and heroes gave her an escape from the monotony of the farm. And my grandfather, no doubt.

  ‘I made her a promise, Raimund. Twenty-five years ago. When I was still a child who believed in fairytales. I told her I would find La Tasse and solve the riddle, and then I would find Durendal and the world once again would see Roland’s magical sword. And you know what she did?’

  He waited, urging her on with his attention.

  ‘She didn’t laugh or tease me, or tell me it was impossible. Instead, she told me that if I set my mind to it, if I wanted it enough, I would do it. It became my passion because of her.’

  ‘You loved her.’

  ‘Yes. Very much.’

  His head turned to the window, as though he didn’t want to look at her. Olivia wished she knew what was going through his handsome head, what he felt at that moment, but he was expressionless.

  ‘I did not know my grandparents. The Blancards have a habit of dying young. It’s our destiny, it seems.’

  ‘We control our own destinies, Raimund.’

  ‘I wish that were true, but it’s not. My life was determined in the year 778, when Charlemagne gave the sword to Guy of Narbonne.’ He regarded her seriously. ‘You must return to England, Olivia. It’s too dangerous for you here.’

  ‘No.’

  He tried to pull his hand from hers, but she wrapped her fingers tighter in his.

  ‘You need me.’ She pushed the pillow off her lap and leaned forward. She had to convince him to let her stay, to let her solve the riddle and find Durendal. The rest—like stopping him from fulfilling his vow—she would sort out later. ‘You won’t find it without me. It’s why you asked for my help in the first place, remember? Because you knew you couldn’t do this on your own.’

  ‘That was before Gaston threatened you. You heard what he said. He will not hesitate to hurt you if it means it will punish me.’

  ‘He has to find us first, and if we’re careful, he won’t. It was pure luck he came across us today.’

  ‘You are wrong. It was my fault for not staying alert.’

  She sighed. ‘I wish you’d stop blaming yourself for everything.’

  ‘And I wish you would do as you are told,’ he said, sounding as exasperated as she felt. ‘But I fear there’s little chance of that occurring.’

  ‘Yeah, well, we can’t all be good little Legionnaires.’

  ‘In your case, that is very true.’

  They eyeballed one another, and then, to Olivia’s delight, Raimund’s mouth began to twitch. A giggle bubbled in her chest and tickled her throat. They were arguing over nothing and he knew it. He might fear for her, but he knew he would never get her on a plane home. They were stuck together whether he liked it or not.

  Their laughter erupted at the same time. It wasn’t raucous or uncontrolled but low and subdued. A gentle release of tension and humour. A shared scrap of happiness in a dangerous world.

  He pressed his head against hers, his eyes creased and dancing.

  ‘How can someone so beautiful be so infuriating?’

  ‘How can someone so handsome be so stubborn?’

  ‘I’m French. It’s in our nature to be recalcitrant.’

  They stayed grinning at one another, but as the seconds ticked by, as they became more and more aware of where they were, their close proximity, the mesh of their fingers, the press of their skin, something changed. Their smiles faded, overtaken by an emotion that slowly ebbed and flowed like an incoming tide, and could not be stopped.

  Easing from her grip, Raimund’s hands slipped up her arms to cup her shoulders. His thumbs teased the hollows and curves of her collarbone in smooth circular strokes, then moved leisurely across her skin towards her neck, as though he wanted to savour every inch. His breath caressed her cheek and lips, a whispered reflection of his touch.

  His eyes dropped to her mouth, staring at it with a slight frown, as if it posed a problem he didn’t know how to solve.

  Olivia held her breath, the anticipation exquisite, her desire igniting like fanned embers.

  But to her utter frustration, he closed his eyes and shook his head in denial, his forehead rubbing against hers. There would be no kiss.

  At least, not the sort she wanted.

  With gentle, tender hands, he cupped her face, kissed her lingeringly on each cheek and then let her go.

  ‘It’s time for you to sleep.’

  ‘What about you?’

  He held her hands to his mouth and kissed them, then laid them back on the sheet in her lap. ‘I must keep watch.’

  ‘But you’d like to stay, for a little while?’

  His attention strayed to the window, as if somewhere out there, floating on the Mediterranean, lay a world only he understood.

  ‘What I would like and what I must do are incompatible,’ he said, turning sad eyes to her. ‘Some things are better left unstarted. They will only end in desolation.’

  ‘But it’s already started.’

  ‘Then for both our sakes, it must stop.’

  But Olivia knew there wasn’t a hope in hell of that.

  CHAPTER

  11

  Olivia woke to find Raimund standing at the window, his face sculpted in light and shadow by the falling sun. Fatigue had dug lines into his skin and smudged the hollows of his eyes, the ravages of sleeplessness far worse than before.

  Draped over his left arm was her green dress, and as he stared out at the sea, he toyed with it. Rubbing it absently between his fingers, as though the fabric transported him to another place.

  But what made her throat close over and her heart clench was the deep sorrow he allowed himself to show when he thought no one could see.

  ‘You can’t keep this up,’ she said. ‘You need rest, too.’

  The sound of her voice sent the shutters down. As he detached himself from wherever his thoughts had taken him, his expression turned Spartan, dispassionate.

  ‘I was about to wake you. As soon as it’s dark, we will leave.’

  ‘Why don’t you lie down and get some sleep instead?’

  He smiled slightly. ‘I have endured many more days than this without sleep. You do not have to worry about me.’

  ‘Someone needs to.’

  ‘You have been listening to Christiane too much. Are you hungry? It’s after nine o’clock.’

  ‘No.’ She screwed up her nose and reconsidered. ‘A bit.’

  Forgetting she wore only a silk slip, Olivia tossed off the sheet and rolled to the edge of the bed. Then, sitting upright, she gathered her hair and lifted it away from her face, stretching her back as she did so.

  ‘I can’t believe I actually slept,’ she said,
releasing the thick ponytail and letting her hair tumble down her back.

  Raimund said nothing.

  She eyed him. He stood unnaturally still, and yet there was a tension about him, the way highly strained bridge cables vibrate in the wind. His gaze had fixed on her body and didn’t appear about to move.

  She checked herself. The nightdress had rucked up, exposing her right thigh almost to the hip. Both dress straps had slid off her shoulders, causing the front of the nightdress to slip down. Only a sliver of fabric covered each nipple. And they were hard.

  Seconds ticked by.

  Olivia’s chest rose and fell with embarrassing depth, as though she had morphed into a trashy romance novel’s heaving heroine. But she couldn’t stop. Although outwardly collected, the way Raimund stared, the way he stood, the way his eyes burned coal black and hungry, turned her insides molten.

  His gaze flicked to her face and then to her green dress. He regarded it as if he had no idea what it was, but then he blinked and thrust it towards her.

  ‘I rinsed it out for you.’

  As she took it, their fingers brushed. Electricity shot up her arm and plunged to her groin. Then just as quickly as it had flashed, it was gone.

  As was he.

  Long strides had him at the bedroom door in seconds. He stopped, his hand on the jamb, the knuckles pronounced, as though he needed its solidity to stay upright. He didn’t turn around.

  ‘I have heated some soup for you. I’m sorry there’s nothing else, but I’m sure Christiane will have something more satisfying if you become hungry later.’

  ‘We’re returning to Rognes?’

  He hesitated before replying. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She expected him to leave then, but he stayed where he was, his back to her. Tall, broad-shouldered and weighed down.

  ‘You do not have to help me, Olivia. You can leave here and return to your life.’ He gazed at her from over his shoulder. ‘You do not have to assist in the shattering of your own dreams.’

  No, she did not. But Olivia had no intention of letting him shatter anything. Some things transcended them both. Durendal was one of them.