Just visible in the cleft between the two halves of the broken painting, stained but intact, was the edge of a piece of vellum.
‘You found it,’ said Raimund, then, with a smile filled with unashamed pride, he draped an arm across Olivia’s shoulders and kissed her temple.
Despite his confident declaration, Olivia wasn’t so sure. Whatever ‘it’ was, they had yet to determine. For all they knew, this could turn out to be an elaborate medieval hoax.
‘Don’t count your chickens,’ she said.
Raimund raised his eyebrows. ‘Pardon? ’
She smiled. ‘Just a saying.’
From the cabinets, Dame Elizabeth let out another squawk.
Olivia peered over her shoulder to where Dame Elizabeth stood gaping at an unfurled length of parchment. ‘Should we tell her?’
‘No. Leave her. I think she’s enjoying herself.’
From the astonished expression on Dame Elizabeth’s face, that was an understatement.
Olivia returned to the painting and bent to take a closer look at what they had found. At some stage, either before or after the painting was made, someone had carved a hollow in the timber. It was small—approximately seven centimetres in length and only five or six millimetres wide—but large enough to accommodate what appeared to be a folded piece of vellum.
Only a single corner was exposed, pulled out when the two halves of the painting gave way. However, from the little Olivia could see, it appeared undamaged. Her fingers tripped over the archaeological tools, searching for tweezers or some other implement she could use to lever out the vellum, but nothing appeared suitable.
‘I will look,’ said Raimund, reading her mind.
He returned with an old pair of tweezers, retrieved from the filing-cabinet drawer where Patrice stored stationery items. They weren’t perfect—the steel was poor quality and lacked strength, and the tips were too sharp—but they would serve her purpose.
She tore off some blotting paper and fashioned pads for the tweezers’ tips. Satisfied the steel was sufficiently sheathed, she closed the tips around the exposed corner of the vellum and gently tugged. To her relief, it slid out intact.
She stared at it, amazed. The quality was extraordinary. There was very little grain and the skin had the kind of subtle translucency found only in the finest vellum. The Grey Knight—if this was indeed his handiwork—had used the best.
‘Slunk,’ she said.
‘Slunk?’
‘It’s a fine type of vellum, usually made from a calf foetus and very thin. Ideal for concealment.’
The vellum appeared to be folded twice. Once in half and then in half again. Olivia did a quick calculation. Given the piece in front of them was approximately five centimetres by five centimetres, unfolded, the skin should measure ten centimetres by ten. Not huge by any means, but big enough for a map.
She put down the tweezers and tore off a large square of paper. Using it like a tray, she slid it under the vellum parcel and then picked up the corners, lifting the paper and parcel as one away from the mess on the table.
‘Can you roll out a clean piece of blotting paper, please?’
Raimund did as directed carefully moving the broken painting and all its fragments to one side and clearing a fresh space for her to work at. When the paper was laid, Olivia set down her makeshift tray on it. After hunting for and donning a pair of cotton gloves, she grabbed the tweezers and settled on a stool to open up the parcel. Alongside her, Raimund leaned forward, his weight on the balls of his palms, his absorption as deep as hers.
She took a few moments to survey the artefact, and then glanced at Raimund. He nodded, his expression eager, impatient, like her, to discover the vellum’s secrets. Focusing back on her task, she used the tweezers to open the first layer. It parted like it had been folded yesterday. Olivia had expected brittleness or at best, stiffness, but the slunk proved astonishingly well-preserved.
‘This is incredible. The humidity and temperature must have been perfect in the coffin for it to be in this condition.’
‘Le Chevalier Gris was wise.’
‘We don’t know it’s his yet.’
‘Come, Olivia. Where is your indomitable optimism?’
‘Being stomped on by my scholarly sceptic. Don’t get your hopes up, Raimund. This could be nothing.’
But Raimund was certain. ‘It’s something. You’ll see.’
The side facing her was blank, but just visible through the skin, like a pattern seen through frosted glass, were faint lines and curves. Something was drawn on the other side of the vellum. Something in faded ink.
More confident in the slunk’s resilience, she placed the tweezers aside and used her hands to turn the rectangle over. Again, showing through, delicate and pale, the way a blonde’s bluish veins tracked beneath her fair skin, were lines of ink.
Picking up the tweezers once more, she glanced again at Raimund. ‘Ready to see if you’re right?’
He nodded.
She took a few breaths, trying to calm the butterflies winging around her stomach, and then inserted the tip of the tweezers under the next fold. As before, the vellum parted with ease. Cautiously, she opened the piece of skin and then laid it out flat.
What she saw made her mouth broaden into one of the biggest joy-filled smiles it had ever made.
On the table in front of her, exposed to the light for the first time in over seven hundred years and signed by Charles Durand, Le Chevalier Gris himself, in elegant, fading script, was a simple hand-drawn map.
And in the centre, marking their treasure in the same way X marks the spot on a pirate’s chart, was the symbol.
They had found it. The hiding place of Durendal.
She looked at Raimund. ‘Kiss me.’
He blinked and frowned as if he didn’t understand what she said.
‘Kiss me, Raimund. Now, before I throw you to the ground and do it myself.’
With a laugh he cupped her face between his hands and brought his mouth down on hers in the most exquisitely passionate kiss she had ever experienced. It wasn’t that his mouth moved with blazing hot fervour which made it special, or that his lips tasted like something you’d only find in heaven. Or, as the kiss deepened, his tongue touched and twined with hers like a wanton lover. What made it so compelling was that he was kissing her at all. Raimund couldn’t ignore what had grown between them any more than she could.
And in that jubilant, triumph-filled moment, it seemed he didn’t want to.
Too soon, the celebration ended. He granted her one final, deliciously tender graze of his lips and then detached himself, leaving Olivia’s mouth tingling with want. Eyes glowing, he regarded the map. Almost instantly, his expression changed to something approaching fanatical desire.
‘Even if Gaston has determined who the Honourables are, he does not have this.’
‘No,’ said Olivia, catching her breath and wishing he’d kiss her again. Anything to remove that look of zealotry from his face. The look that spelled the destruction of Durendal.
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.