by Cathryn Hein
‘How am I supposed to manage that?’
‘Use what God gave you.’
Olivia blinked, hoping Christiane wasn’t referring to what she thought she was.
‘Sex,’ whispered Christiane, her eyebrows wiggling. ‘It’s how I snared Edouard. And good food. That helped.’ She mulled a little longer. ‘Although having a respected vigneron for a papa probably clinched it.’
Olivia tried not to giggle.
‘I’m not much of a cook, and my father runs cattle and sheep. Not a vineyard within sight.’
‘But you’re not a virgin, surely?’
‘No.’
‘Then you can use sex!’
Olivia threw up her hands, French style. ‘He’s immune to me.’
Christiane let out a snort. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. He’s a Blancard. Of course he isn’t immune.’ She gave a ‘pah’ of disgust. ‘Don’t tell me I’m going to have to give you lessons on that as well!’
CHAPTER
12
That Raimund hadn’t slept was obvious the moment Olivia padded down to breakfast. The night before, after Edouard and Christiane had trotted off to bed, she had tried in vain to persuade Raimund to do the same, but he was adamant. A watch had to be kept and he was the only person who could do it. The death of one guard in his employ was enough. There would not be another.
As Olivia settled at the breakfast table, Christiane tossed her a meaningful look, but she could only give a nominal shake of her head in return. Olivia didn’t know what to do with him either.
He sat at the table toying with the handle of his espresso cup, eyes glazed and bloodshot in the corners. Since their escape from the chateau, she had learned to read him better, and could see beyond his poker face. He was tired, but something else bothered him, and it manifested itself in his slightly turned-down mouth and in the minute creasing of his brow. As though his subconscious was lost in a maze. A maze filled with dead ends.
‘Will you do something for me?’ she asked as they paused at the entrance to the archives, waiting for the portcullis to rise.
‘That depends on what it is.’
‘It’s not onerous. Quite pleasant, in fact.’
The gate had risen to only chest height, but Raimund ducked under the bars and strode down the main aisle to the study area, as though anxious to put distance between them. Olivia followed suit, jogging to catch up.
‘I will not kiss you, if that’s what you mean,’ he said.
As she caught up, Olivia slackened her pace, deciding she’d rather trail two steps behind. Today, he had dressed in faded jeans and they perfectly hugged his backside. Though they weren’t tight, they were well-fitted, moulding to his taut muscles. His shirt was a blue cotton polo, which like his jeans, didn’t cling but still fitted enough to provide evidence of his athletic physique.
‘Spoilsport,’ she said, admiring the view. He really did possess the most fantastic backside. ‘But no. That wasn’t it. What I’d like you to do is lie down and sleep.’
Christiane would suggest he did so with Olivia. It wasn’t an unpleasant thought, but not this morning and not on that sofa. No matter how creative they were, it was too narrow for the both of them. Besides, Raimund needed rest, and she had work to do.
He stopped at the table, shaking his head at the papers and folders strewn across its surface. Patrice’s meticulous filing system had been shuffled into oblivion.
‘And who would help you?’
Olivia stood next to him with her head tilted to one side. ‘I’m a historian, remember? I’m pretty sure I can manage.’
‘A very messy one.’
‘I have a system, Raimund,’ she said, picking up a folder and flicking through its contents. ‘You just don’t understand it.’ She tossed the folder aside and picked up another, frowning at the label. A survey of plant species found on a small Blancard acreage at Vauvert, north of King Louis IX’s now silted-up port of Aigues-Mortes. Patrice was even more anal than she’d originally thought.
‘I doubt anyone could understand it.’ He looked at her sideways. ‘You will be okay?’
She smiled and pushed him towards the sofa. ‘I’ll be fine. Now sleep. That’s an order, Captain Blancard. You’re absolutely no good to me dead on your feet.’
‘You will wake me if you need anything.’
His order made Olivia smirk. Non-Legionnaires weren’t compelled to obey, no matter how gorgeous the officer.
‘And whatever you do, do not leave the house.’ He turned and gave her a determined look. ‘I mean it, Olivia.’
‘Cross my heart,’ she said, pushing him in the chest.
He flopped onto the sofa, then stretched out his long legs, dragged up a cushion from behind his back and rested his head on it. Unlike the previous day, he did not immediately close his eyes. Olivia reached out to stroke his hair.
‘Sleep,’ she said. Then on impulse, she bent down and kissed him gently on the temple before returning to her work.
In the subterranean hush his husky voice came to her like an oracle’s prophecy.
‘You will solve it, Olivia. I have faith in you.’
His words set her confidence soaring.
An hour later it had plummeted.
Another ten minutes of unproductive staring at her scribbles and Olivia had had enough. With a pencil, a pad of paper and Patrice’s meticulously drafted summary of the collection, she stalked to the end of the room and stopped at the first shelf. Since her lateral brain had tied itself in knots, she would try Patrice’s way and approach her problem methodically.
She started with the first book on the top shelf—a leather-bound, fifteenth-century copy of the famous Charlemagne-era Godescalc Evangelistary, complete with magnificent illuminations. A treasure in its own right, but in the context of the archives, just another old book. At least it wasn’t an original, unlike Raimund’s breathtakingly precious edition of the Song of Roland.
As she carefully turned the pages, Olivia hoped not all the collection was like this. It would take months to check each book for a sign of the symbol or reference to the Honourables. At least with the Godescalc Evangelistary—a Gospel book—only the illustrations were of concern. If she had to read the text as well, she’d go quietly insane.
Fortunately, as she progressed through the shelves, she realised the majority of the books were easy to dismiss. While fascinating, and worth an inestimable amount of money, rare tomes dissecting the Albigensian crusade and biographies of Saint Louis were unlikely to yield what she sought. Yet precautions had to be taken, and she inspected every binding and the endsheets and flyleaves scrupulously, just in case.
She worked quietly, sliding books onto and off the shelves with infinite care, afraid Raimund would wake at the slightest disturbance. As the minutes became hours, her brain’s capacity for engagement waned. The archives were so full of treasure it was easy to become distracted. A fourteenth-century illuminated manuscript held her mesmerised for almost twenty minutes. The illustrations were magnificent, vibrant with colour and perfectly rendered.
The manuscript was a collection of saints’ stories. Poor Saint Agatha gazing at the plate she held, her creamy severed breasts displayed like desserts. Saint Lawrence, one of the patron saints of Florence, calmly lying on a grill as his feral-faced grinning torturers slowly roasted him alive. The Alexandrian beauty, Saint Catherine, pictured with the instruments of her martyrdom—the wheel and the sword—while the sky behind her exploded with stars. And then there was Saint Peter, crucified like Jesus, but at his request, head down. Unwilling to die in the same manner as his Lord.
But all Olivia could think of was Patrice.
She stared at the illustration, tears filling her eyes. Peter had the same resolute expression as the other martyrs. Faith had given him the hope of everlasting life, yet what had Patrice to cling to? Did he have faith beyond love for his brother, or did he have nothing but fear and pain and broken hope?
Heedless of its value, she snapped
the book shut, slid it back on the shelf and rubbed her hands against her sides as though they were covered in poison. This was ridiculous. She couldn’t scour every artefact in the archives. There had to be another approach.
Irritated, she paced the aisles, trying to collect her thoughts, stopping occasionally to peer at the shelves in case inspiration struck. Inexorably, her path led her to the strange, damaged painting near the portcullis. With her arms crossed and her back leaning against the end of a controlled-climate shelf, she regarded the picture, inspecting the surface, hunting for a clue to its purpose.
Perhaps it had belonged to someone important. The Grey Knight himself, or even his son. If she was correct in her assessment, the period was right and it was not unreasonable for a man of his background to possess an artwork such as this. But how and why had it been so terribly damaged, and why were there two unidentifiable figures staring so reverently at Charlemagne?
‘Patrice was intrigued by this picture also,’ said Raimund, joining her against the end of the shelf.
As before, sleep had done wonders. His eyes, though still slightly bloodshot in the corners, were clearer. His arm felt warm pressed against her skin. He rubbed at his stubble, his fingers making a scratching noise against the bristles. The simple movement made Olivia fantasise about morning-afters. Of waking beside him, feeling the brush of his rough skin on hers as he kissed her awake.
‘Do you know anything about it?’ she asked, shaking away the thought. She had to get a grip. An active imagination was an asset, but wasting it on romantic fantasies wouldn’t help solve the riddle.
‘Very little, but I know it came from the house at Vauvert because I helped my father bring it here.’ His eyes crinkled at the memory. ‘It was one of the few times I did not enjoy working with him.’ He shifted his gaze to her. ‘There’s a small cemetery on the property where some of my ancestors are buried. We knew one of the six tombs contained valuables, but not the exact one. Five poor souls had their resting place disturbed before we found what we sought.’
‘Not pleasant.’
‘No.’
They stared back at the painting.
‘Is that how it was damaged?’ she asked after a minute had passed.
‘No. Patrice said the break was made and repaired soon after it was painted.’
‘Why did he hang it here, with the others? I mean, look at them.’ She swept her arm over the wall. ‘These would have a Sotheby’s auctioneer weeping tears of joy, but this,’ her finger pointed at the painting in question, ‘this just doesn’t fit.’
‘I’m sorry. I do not know.’ He placed his hand on her shoulder. ‘Have you made any progress with La Chanson?’
Biting her lip, Olivia shook her head. Her lack of insight was letting them both down. He gave her a reassuring squeeze.
‘Do not worry. You’ll find the answer.’
‘Yeah. I will. Eventually.’ She sighed and rubbed her hand over her face. Where to go from here? ‘Right. No more mucking about. I need to think this through properly. What do we know about the Grey Knight?’
‘Very little. Patrice knows … knew a lot more, but this much I can tell you.’
To Olivia’s astonishment, he reeled off a series of facts as though they were common knowledge. As though this was information she already knew.
‘Le Chevalier Gris was the second son of Guillaume Durand. His elder brother died during the Battle of Fariskur during the Seventh Crusade, while he was captured with King Louis and ransomed. He was a member of the Ordre des Hospitaliers, although it’s obvious from the number of children he produced that he did not take his monastic vows seriously. Amongst other properties, he owned the land at Vauvert where that painting was hidden. He was reputed to be a scholar. His real name was Charles.’
She stared at him with a mixture of awe and exasperation. ‘You know his name!’
‘Yes,’ he said, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise at her tone.
Her hands went to her hips. ‘All along, you knew his name. You knew he was a hospitaller. You even knew what land he owned. And you didn’t tell me.’
It was lucky Raimund had the good grace to appear guilty or she would have struggled not to thump him.
‘Forgive me, Olivia. I did not realise its importance.’
‘You didn’t —’ She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. ‘Never mind. At least that gives me some sort of starting point.’
He observed her in silence while she tumbled this new knowledge around her head.
Everything she knew about the Grey Knight was gleaned from legend and fairytales. Not a scrap of concrete evidence existed to prove he was a real man. Always he was referred to by the romantic sobriquet, Le Chevalier Gris. A fiction, like Lancelot or Percival. But despite all this, she had always believed he was flesh and blood. The Grey Knight and La Tasse weren’t created in a vacuum. Inspiration had to come from somewhere.
And now she had his name.
Charles Durand.
‘Okay. So he was a Knight Hospitaller,’ she said, leaving the shelf and beginning to wander, her arms crossed over her chest. She spoke out loud, verbalising her thoughts. ‘Their symbol was a white cross on a black background. Nothing like the symbol on La Tasse.
‘He was from the military arm, obviously, and was a religious man, although it seems a very flawed one. He had a son—we know that, because that’s part of the legend.’ She stopped and spun around, firing her next question back at Raimund. ‘That part’s true, isn’t it? La Tasse was made for his son?’
Raimund had remained at the shelf, but now he left it to join her. ‘Yes. He had two sons and a daughter.’
‘And how old was the eldest when the Grey Knight died?’
‘Nine.’
‘Damn.’
Incomprehension creased Raimund’s brow. ‘Why?’
She returned to meandering amongst the shelves. ‘It means the Grey Knight could have passed to his son some vital information which would make the answer to the riddle obvious. If the boy was an infant, then the riddle would have had to be more widely solvable.’
‘You are forgetting the time period. Even I know many children died of disease and misadventure during the thirteenth century. Le Chevalier Gris would have understood that, too.’
She stopped again, staring sightlessly at a row of pottery cups, each with a tag labelled in Patrice’s distinctively tight writing.
‘Of course. You’re right. I’m not thinking properly. He was too smart to leave anything to chance.’ She picked up a cup and held it in front of her eyes, frowning. ‘No one was terribly interested in another crusade after the last effort.’
‘Defeat is not good for morale, Olivia.’
She smiled grimly. It had cost France a year’s taxes to pay King Louis’ ransom, not to mention the annihilation of his army. The Seventh Crusade was not a success, though that didn’t stop Louis from wanting to try again.
‘No, it’s not. And we know there were serious problems at Aigues-Mortes. Louis had arrived with his troops several weeks ahead of his ships. The facilities were inadequate and the soldiers were bored. Some crusaders became so sick of the situation they absconded and took to piracy. Then they had to wait on the Genoese, who were late or perhaps not coming at all. And being a seasoned campaigner, the Grey Knight would have known July was the wrong time of year to go. He would have hoped for a delay.’
She slid the cup back on the shelf and grasped Raimund by the upper arms, a sense of inching enlightenment jangling her nerves. Her mind was finally working. She was on the edge of a breakthrough.
‘His son was young, not ready for the responsibility. The hiding place had to be one that would be secure for a number of years, like a sealed chamber or something. But there was a slight chance the crusade would not go ahead. Perhaps the political landscape would change. He wouldn’t have risked hiding Durendal until he was sure he was leaving.’
She caught her breath, thinking hard, chasing a theory around her head
. Raimund waited, expressionless and still.
‘Where was his family?’
‘Vauvert,’ he replied. ‘The boy is buried in the cemetery along with his mother and younger brother.’
‘So he —’ Suddenly, the words sank in. ‘He died? The boy—his son—he died?’
‘Yes. His sister, Marguerite, took his place as protector.’
‘A woman?’
‘Yes. A woman. My family was quite open-minded. We did not practise primogeniture.’ His expression turned wry. ‘Then, as now, we could not afford to.’
Olivia squeezed his arm. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Do not be. Now, please. Continue.’
She chewed her lip, regathering her thoughts. ‘He was at Aigues-Mortes with the other crusaders.’ She paused. ‘As they were expecting the Genoese to arrive any day, he couldn’t venture far. How far is it from Aigues-Mortes to Vauvert?’
He shrugged. ‘Twenty kilometres. Less if you do not follow the road.’
‘An easy ride. He could be there in less than half a day.’ She let go of his arms and stared once again at the shelf full of cups. ‘As soon as he knew, he would have set out. He probably had the cup made beforehand. He could have easily broken it if there was a change of plan.’ She turned back to Raimund. ‘Durendal is at Vauvert. It has to be. It was a short ride away. His family was there. He could hide the sword, hand La Tasse to his son and be back at Aigues-Mortes within a day. That’s what the Honourables’ path referred to. His path. The one he took to Vauvert.’
‘It’s not at Vauvert,’ Raimund said.
Raimund’s tone was certain but Olivia ignored it. ‘It has to be. It fits perfectly. It’s probably buried in that cemetery where you found the painting. Hidden in eternal night, like the dead.’ She began to bounce on her heels. ‘We’ll leave tomorrow. We’ll need tools. Spades and things for the heavy work. Is the house habitable? Maybe we should leave now so we can start our search first thing in the morning.’
He grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. ‘It’s not at Vauvert.’