by Cathryn Hein
But Raimund’s mind had shifted to other matters. Turning away, he raided one of the filing cabinets, flicking through files until he found the one he wanted. He pulled it out, extracted a large folded sheet from the pile of papers held within, and, eyeing the already laden table, took it to one of the study boards.
Opened out, it was a satellite image of what she assumed was the Gailhan property.
‘Bring the map,’ he ordered.
Olivia stared at his back. She knew the signs now. The slightly stiff way he held himself, the authoritative tone of his voice. The change had come again. Raimund had become a soldier and this time, his target was in reach.
With a sigh, she slid a small sheet of blotting paper under the vellum map and carried it over to him. He looked at the map and then at her. Then, without asking, picked up the map and laid it next to the satellite image.
‘You shouldn’t be touching it,’ said Olivia. ‘It’s seven hundred years old.’
The fragility and age of the map appeared of no concern to him. His focus was on the two pictures, his finger moving from the vellum to the photograph, reconciling the two maps against each other. The thrill of discovery had been overcome with a different need, and his impatience was palpable.
‘Look,’ he said, pointing to an outcrop of rocks on the satellite image and then to a crudely drawn mound on the vellum map.
To Olivia, the comparison seemed equivocal. From what she could tell, there were several mounds scattered amongst the thick woodland of the Gailhan property that matched the one on the map.
‘I don’t really see a correlation, Raimund.’
‘There’s a path.’
She squinted at the photograph. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t see it.’
‘Perhaps that’s because you do not wish to see it.’
With rapid, decisive movements he picked up the vellum, refolded it and placed it in the front pocket of his chinos as if it was nothing more than a handkerchief. Then he folded the satellite image and moved back to the table, drawing the aluminium case towards him. After ensuring La Tasse was secure, he closed the lid and handed it and the satellite image to Olivia.
‘What are you doing?’
‘We have much to prepare.’
‘We?’
He threw her a look. ‘I did not think it wise to attempt to leave you behind.’
‘You’re going to Gailhan? Now?’
‘As soon as I prepare, yes.’
‘What about Dame Elizabeth?’
Already he was marching towards the shelves. ‘She will remain here.’
Olivia trotted along behind. Surely he couldn’t intend leaving her in the archives alone? She’d never make it back up the stairs.
Dame Elizabeth was so engrossed in a manuscript she let out a shriek and batted his chest when Raimund grabbed her arm.
‘Let me go, you ridiculous man. Can’t you see I’m busy!’
Raimund was in too much of a hurry to worry about Dame Elizabeth’s sensitivities. ‘Come. We are leaving.’
She gave him another swat. ‘I haven’t even started.’
‘I do not have time to argue. You will walk with me, or I will carry you. It’s your choice.’
‘And I’ve made it perfectly plain, I’m not going anywhere.’
Raimund and Dame Elizabeth stared at one another, one coldly calm, the other boiling with outrage. Olivia knew who she favoured. To her students, Dame Elizabeth had been a formidable figure, but to a soldier like Raimund, she was just a bad-tempered old woman in the way.
In one swift movement, Dame Elizabeth was swept up into his arms and carted out of the chamber, her cut-glass voice echoing off the concrete walls, skinny arms and legs flailing.
‘Put me down! I demand it. Now! How dare you touch me, you ill-mannered man. I’m an English Dame!’
Olivia followed, lowering the portcullis when they’d passed through and then running ahead to open the door to the stairs. Having given up on Raimund, Dame Elizabeth started on her former student.
‘Tell your boyfriend to put me down! I will not be manhandled by anyone. Least of all a Frenchman!’
‘The stairs are too steep for you,’ said Olivia, trying to placate her, but knowing the task would be impossible. ‘It’s best if you just relax and let Raimund carry you up.’
Dame Elizabeth was fairly spitting with rage. ‘I have not finished, you stupid girl.’
‘You have,’ said Raimund in a tone that brooked no argument.
The old lady’s face turned puce, her blue eyes sparkling with fury. ‘Have you any appreciation of what is in that room?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’re happy to just let it rot?’
Raimund waited for Olivia to close the door and then pass ahead of him. ‘These are my family’s archives,’ he said, continuing up the stairs, stony-faced and unmoved. ‘I can do whatever I choose with them.’
‘That collection is far too important for its fate to be left in the hands of a philistine like you!’
Olivia halted on the top landing, her fingers on the door handle. She cast Raimund a look of sympathy. Not that he needed it. He seemed genuinely unaffected by Dame Elizabeth’s insults.
He looked up, his expression inscrutable, but his eyes were locked on hers. ‘Do not worry, Dame Thatcher. The archives are not under the exclusive control of a philistine. They are Olivia’s now also. I’m sure she will take great care of them.’
His words, said so perfunctorily but meaning so much, made her breath catch. Free access to the archives she already possessed, but now it seemed he was gifting them to her, just as he had given her his father’s watch. It was an honour beyond description.
She stared at him, overwhelmed with feeling, wishing she could put her gratitude into words. But then her heart sank as quickly as it had risen as she realised the implication of his action.
The archives were his farewell present. Something to soothe her ravaged heart when he was gone. Compensation for destroying Durendal, for abandoning her. He was freeing himself of everything. His past and his future. A future that would never include her.
‘She’s almost as untrustworthy!’ huffed Dame Elizabeth, switching her glare to Olivia. ‘You’ll have to inform the university.’
Olivia looked straight at Raimund, challenging him. ‘I’m not informing anyone. I made a promise to keep the archives secret, and I’m keeping it. They’re Raimund’s legacy. It’s his choice what happens to them. Not mine.’
‘You what?’
She held the door open, reaching out to squeeze Raimund’s bunched bicep as he passed through. A warning to him. She might not be a soldier, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t fight. He wasn’t escaping that easily.
The look he cast her was impenetrable. Not even a micro-expression betrayed his inner thoughts. It was as though the kiss he’d lost himself in only a short time ago had never happened. A behavioural aberration he had already forgotten, its memory wiped by his desire for Durendal.
Raimund set down Dame Elizabeth, then held her by the shoulders and bent to face her. ‘You are a guest in this house. Please behave like one.’
She scowled at him, and then it finally occurred to her that something might be up. Her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed, puckering her face like a prune. ‘What is going on?’
Olivia glanced at Raimund. He said nothing.
‘You found it, didn’t you? The symbol. You found it.’ Her voice rose an octave. ‘And you didn’t tell me!’
‘This is no longer your business,’ said Raimund, heading for the door to the hallway. He held it open for her, his arm outstretched, ready to usher her through. ‘You are to remain here with Christiane and Edouard until Olivia and I return.’
Dame Elizabeth was almost incoherent with rage. ‘Do not order me about like one of your skivvies. I will do whatever I please.’
‘You will not.’
Olivia pushed Dame Elizabeth along the corridor. ‘Please. You need to stay here. It’
s for your own safety.’
‘I don’t care about my safety. What I care about is that a veritable treasure lies beneath this house and you refuse to let anyone see it. And now,’ her voice rose yet another octave, ‘you and that poker-faced boyfriend of yours are going off to dig up Durendal. An activity for which neither of you is qualified. An artefact, I might add, worth more than the entire contents of that room.’
Given the archives held a copy of the Song of Roland that predated the Oxford manuscript, Olivia thought that was actually a debateable point, but any mention of that precious object would only send Dame Elizabeth into more of a frenzy.
But she was right on one point. Neither of them was qualified to excavate Durendal. But what did it matter?
Raimund was going to destroy it anyway.
As soon as Dame Elizabeth was installed in the kitchen, Olivia escaped to her room to change into the field clothes Christiane had kindly laundered for her. If they were off exploring, she would need comfortable clothing and decent footwear. Sandals and summer frocks were out.
She spent some time in front of the ensuite mirror fixing her hair into a tight braid, then returned to the bed to pull on thick socks and hiking boots. The outfit made her feel adventurous, like a less busty Lara Croft. She smiled wryly to herself. If this was a fantasy, Raimund would be her Indiana Jones. She always did have a soft spot for Harrison Ford’s iconic archaeologist. Not that there was any comparison. Raimund made Indiana Jones look like a craggy-faced old man.
She sat on the bed, her hand curled in the hollow at the base of her throat, taking minutes she knew Raimund would not want to waste, questioning herself one final time.
She was about to hunt for Durendal, the real Excalibur. She would touch the very thing that had held her in thrall since she was a young girl mesmerised by her grandmother’s romantic tales of knights and heroes.
If she and Raimund found it, if she held in her hands the sword that Roland had wielded, had fought with, had killed with, a sword steeped in mystery and history and passion and legend, would she be able to give it up for Raimund to destroy?
She blinked, her eyes swimming. He was determined. The sword had caused him and his family enormous pain for over a thousand years. Because of it, Patrice had died a horrific death and he was only the last in a long line of many before him. To set himself free, Raimund wanted it destroyed once and for all. She understood that. She even sympathised.
The question was could she really let him do it?
She had told herself she would. That for him, for her knight, she would sacrifice anything. But at that moment, when she saw Durendal and held it in her hands and realised she had finally fulfilled the promises made to her grandmother and herself, could she let him?
But just as importantly, would he still destroy it knowing that no matter what she said otherwise, it would shatter her? That little pieces of her soul would snap off like shards from Durendal’s fractured blade. That with that singular action he would prove that there would never be a place for her in his life.
She put her head in her hands. These were questions without answers. For now.
‘Olivia!’
She stood, pressing her palms against her eyes, willing herself to be strong.
A knock sounded. Raimund pushed open the door. She quickly dropped her hands to her side and hunted around for her backpack, avoiding his gaze in case he saw her turmoil.
‘Olivia?’ He stepped into the room, catching her arm as she tried to brush past. ‘What’s the matter?’
She should have known better than to try to hide from him. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. I’m fine.’
He held her, preventing her from escape. Then very gently, he raised his hand to her face and brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers.
‘It will be over soon.’
Her jaw clenched. She stared at the wall, trying to stop herself from disintegrating. Nothing would be over. If he kept on like this, if he ran like he was so obviously planning to, this would only be the start of a spiral into misery. The two of them, existing, not living. Lost. Wresting her emotions back under control, she looked at him.
‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’
Then she pulled out of his grip and with her back straight and her head held high, she walked up the hall and descended the stairs to the kitchen.
Whatever lay ahead, she would withstand it.
Somehow.
CHAPTER
19
Olivia stared out the Mercedes’ passenger-side window at the passing countryside, deliberately avoiding the vista to the south. In the north, the sky was a perfect cloudless azure, but towards the sea a burnt ochre haze stained the horizon. Hot winds from Africa had picked up dust and sand and carried them across the Mediterranean, and the heavy sky seemed ominous, filled with blood. She had never been superstitious, yet that ensanguined horizon felt loaded with portent.
Raimund kept his grip tight on the Mercedes’ steering wheel. Gusts buffeted the car and although it was weighty and well-engineered enough to withstand the wind, other traffic wasn’t faring so well. The autoroute was congested with tourists and locals travelling at far greater speeds than the posted 130-kilometres-an-hour limit, and with every gust, the smaller cars and those less conscientiously handled strayed out of their lanes.
It was almost midday and there was still one hundred kilometres to cover until Gailhan. Bar a backbeat of French rock music from the turned-down radio, most of their journey so far had passed in charged silence. A situation that didn’t appear about to change. Olivia supposed that like her, Raimund was battling to form something coherent from the jumble of thoughts strewn about his head.
But perhaps it was simply his attire that made him incapable of speech.
The snug khaki t-shirt might have been sexy had he not teamed it with camouflage pants and combat boots. She hadn’t commented when she saw what he was wearing when they left Rognes, but her dismay must have been evident. He had apologised, citing the terrain and comfort as an excuse. The Gailhan property was rugged and the exact location of Durendal unknown. Fatigues were practical. No different to her field clothes. It was a reasonable explanation. She accepted it. Yet every time she looked at that wood-brown, black and drab green pattern her heart ached.
She slid her eyes to the left. Raimund had pulled his left hand from the wheel and pressed it against his forehead. The knuckles on his right were pronounced, the skin whitish and taut. Except for that telltale sign of disturbance, he remained as stoic as ever.
‘Why do you do that?’ she asked suddenly.
His hand dropped to the wheel. ‘Do what?’
‘Rub your forehead like that.’
The radio’s rock music counted the beats of his silence. His hand lifted from the wheel, as if he was going to press it against his head again, but then he slapped it back down. He inhaled deeply, his eyes fixed on the road, his brow furrowed.
‘The photos. Patrice.’ His mouth thinned as he pressed his lips together. ‘The images come back sometimes.’
‘I’m sorry.’
There seemed little more to say. The pain was something Olivia could never imagine and what little comfort she could offer would likely sound patronising. She pressed the side of her head against the cool glass and returned to contemplating the landscape. Soon they would pass the ancient Roman city of Arles. Then it would be on to Nîmes, yet another of the south’s famously historic cities. There, they would leave the autoroute and travel north-west. The road would be unfamiliar. At least it would give her something new to look at.
She wondered how Dame Elizabeth was coping. Probably not very well given the way she had jerked out of reach when Olivia had attempted to kiss her goodbye. She wouldn’t put it past the irascible old lady to escape the Rosecs’ care and attempt to hitchhike back to Aix. Olivia doubted she would get far. She had spied Raimund having words to Edouard. As they spoke, both took turns to eye their fuming guest. Dame Elizabeth, she suspected, had been
placed under house arrest.
‘What I said about the archives.’ He took his eyes off the road to look at her. ‘About them belonging to you. I meant it.’
The reminder of his ‘gift’ snapped something inside Olivia. ‘We made love last night. We did it again this morning and it wasn’t meaningless sex. You know that. Just as you know I’m not someone you can buy off with your treasure.’ She didn’t mean for her words to sound so harsh, but she was too angry and hurt to be moderate.
His expression turned furious, his tone withering. ‘You think me so vulgar?’
She twisted in her seat, shifting so she sat sideways, facing him. This time, when she spoke, she kept her tone soft. She wanted him to know she understood him, but she also needed him to realise the pain he was causing. That his actions weren’t noble, they were selfish.
‘I think you’re looking for a way to ease your conscience. When you’re off in Africa or wherever, you’ll be able to think back and tell yourself I didn’t do so badly out of this. That I can console myself with the great gift you gave me.’
She waited for him to respond, but he didn’t. She had hit a nerve, though. The clench of his jaw and his cold scrutiny of the traffic showed her that.
‘I don’t care about the archives, Raimund. I don’t even care about Durendal anymore. I only care about you.’
He glanced in the mirror and then pulled out to overtake an old Renault. The Mercedes stayed in the fast lane, speeding up behind an Audi. He waited for the driver to move aside, and when the reaction didn’t come fast enough, ducked back into the centre lane and overtook on the inside before weaving back into the outermost lane again. Every movement was precise, the car expertly handled, but his impatience exposed his feelings.
Another kilometre passed before he spoke. Another kilometre of stomach-twisting, shoulder-aching tension.
‘You will feel differently soon.’
‘Don’t tell me the way I will or won’t feel.’ She pointed to her chest. ‘I’m the one who decides that. Me. Not you. Me.’
His fingers returned to his forehead, but he didn’t reply. Olivia flopped back into her seat and turned her head to the window.