Olivia woke with a pounding head and a mouth that felt and tasted like a dried-up sewer. She moaned and, with an effort, opened her gummy eyelids.
‘Where am I?’ she mumbled.
‘Shh,’ said Raimund, cupping her head and holding a glass to her mouth. ‘Drink and then rest. You have nothing to fear. This house belongs to me. You are safe.’
She swallowed thirstily, closing her eyes and savouring the drink. It tasted of very sweet orange and felt faintly oily on her tongue. She frowned, trying to work out what it was.
‘It’s water mixed with glucose and electrolytes. Do not worry. I will not poison you. You have my word.’
He released her head and settled her back on the pillow. She opened her eyes. Raimund’s face was in shadow, as inscrutable as ever. But then he tenderly brushed his hand over her forehead and across her hair, the movement as soothing as his deliciously accented voice.
‘The gunman … the guard …’
‘Don’t worry yourself with that right now. Sleep, Olivia. I’ll keep watch.’
Overwhelmed with tiredness, she slid back into sleep, lulled by a press of soft lips against her forehead that felt real instead of dreamed.
The room was still dim when she woke again. She stared at the ceiling, blinking away the grit of sleep and trying to orient herself.
As her eyes adjusted to the faint light, she realised they were in some kind of farmhouse, a gîte or rural cottage, the sort commonly rented out to summer tourists. From the little she could see, it appeared well maintained and equipped. The ceiling and walls were whitewashed and the bed on which she lay, large and comfortable. The sheets a fine percale, the pillows stuffed thick with down.
Across the room, in the wall opposite the end of the bed, was what she assumed to be a window. Someone had nailed a heavy blanket across it, blocking out the night. She twisted her head to the right, to where the room’s only source of light lay. Raimund sat on a wooden stool at a rustic timber table staring intently at La Tasse lying on its side in front of him. Behind it, a gas lantern was turned down very low, casting light and shadow across his still face. In his right hand he held a fork, as though he was about to tuck into a meal.
She observed him quietly, thinking how handsome he appeared in the lamp glow. Softer somehow, as though the yellow light had mellowed his hard planes and turned him human, into a man capable of feeling.
Seemingly unaware of her scrutiny, he remained focused on the cup, his concentration absolute. Then he picked it up in his left hand, and using the tines of the fork, began scratching away under the rim as casually as if he were clearing dirt from under his fingernails. Olivia stared on in silence, made stupid by horror, but then her mind and mouth connected in a croaky yell.
‘Stop!’
She tried to sit up, but in her agitation became tangled in the sheet. Only then did she realise that, except for her underpants, she was naked.
She hovered half upright, blinking, unsure what to do and vaguely aware that the entire room stank of camphor. In a flash, Raimund was by the bed, pushing her back down on it, whispering calming words in French. They made no difference.
She struggled against him, trying to sit. ‘Let me go!’
He seized her shoulders and held her down on the mattress. Olivia attempted to punch him, only to discover her hands were covered in bandages.
‘Olivia, stop. Go back to sleep. There is nothing to fear. We are under no threat at the moment. I promise.’ His voice was soft and even, as though he were talking to a panicky child. It made her furious.
She glared at him. ‘And leave you alone with the cup? Not a chance.’
‘You need sleep.’
‘The only thing I need is the cup. And to get it the hell away from you.’
His grip on her shoulders tightened, his mouth stiffening into a thin hard line. In the low light, Raimund’s dark eyes seemed to smoulder like burning peat. The kind, concerned man was gone. When he spoke, his voice was obdurate, the tone indicating he had no more tolerance for her petty tantrums.
‘La Tasse is mine.’
‘The cup belongs to the world, Raimund. Not just to you.’
He let go of her and stood, staring down as though she was of no consequence, his expression impassive.
‘Sleep. It will be morning soon and you have a long day ahead.’
Then he turned and sat once more at the table, and lifted the cup. Much to Olivia’s relief, the fork stayed set aside, although in dangerous proximity.
She watched him warily, contemplating her next move. Her lack of attire was a problem, as were her bandaged hands. If she were to steal the cup from Raimund and escape from wherever the hell they were, she needed not only her hands free, but her clothes and boots.
She stared at the ceiling and bit her lip. She didn’t know where she was, her head throbbed, her stomach and chest stung, and she was stuck in a room that reeked of mothballs with a man who wanted to attack one of the most significant historical finds in years with a kitchen utensil. But no matter how comfortable the bed, lying there and doing nothing was not an option. Not when La Tasse was at stake.
Her eyes on Raimund, Olivia began tearing at the bandages on her right hand with her teeth, and when it was free, used it to unravel the left. Exposed, her hands felt greasy and smelled strongly of antiseptic cream. The skin of one palm was lightly grazed and she had suffered a small cut from the cable ties on the other, but even that was barely noticeable. Despite what the bandages implied, her injuries were more an irritant than impairment. She wiped her hands on the sheet to remove the cream then shucked the sheet down the bed, wincing as it tugged away from her scabs.
Raimund had placed plasters over the worst cuts and abrasions, but many remained exposed. More plasters covered her breasts. Olivia’s face flamed as she realised the implication of this. Raimund had not only seen her practically naked, he’d bathed and dressed her injuries. All of them.
Humiliation could wait, though. Finding clothes took priority.
Tentatively, she touched her feet to the cool timber floor. Breath tight, she waited, expecting Raimund to turn around and challenge her, but he remained fixated, staring at the goblet like it was the Holy Grail. Then, as if reading Braille, his finger drifted over the few recognisable words etched into the clay. Olivia knew they would tell him nothing. La Chanson du Chevalier Gris needed to be read in full, and even then, she doubted he possessed the skill to decipher its meaning.
She put her weight down and stood, one arm shielding her breasts. In the silence, the creaking bedsprings sounded like a screeching bird. Olivia winced at the intrusion of noise then scanned the room for her clothes. They hung neatly folded over the back of a chair in a corner near what looked like the cottage’s main door.
Mustering the little dignity she still possessed, she crossed the room and snatched them up. They felt crusted and filthy, and she was glad the stink of camphor and antiseptic covered the smell of her stale sweat. Not that she cared about her body odour. It suited her sour mood perfectly.
He spoke without looking at her, breaking the tension with quiet words. ‘I’ll arrange for you to fly back to England tomorrow. This is not worth you dying for.’
‘I’ve no intention of dying, Raimund,’ she told him as she inspected her torn and soiled bra, before tossing it aside. Her chest hurt too much to put it on, and modesty was pointless. The Frenchman had already had a good look at her breasts. ‘Not here, that’s for sure.’
He surveyed her, his eyes trailing over her poorly concealed breasts and stomach. For a half-second, she thought she saw his pupils dilate but then he blinked and returned to his contemplation of the cup.
As quickly as she could manage, she shrugged into her shirt, fastened the buttons, tugged on her trousers and then sat on the chair to pull on her boots. The clothes boosted her confidence. She rose and stood by his shoulder, wondering if she could snatch La Tasse out of his hands, but then thought better of it. The grazes had made her fingers stiff and clumsy. She couldn’t risk dropping the cup.
He reached forward and turned up the lamp. The golden light cast shadows across his face and Olivia was reminded of the features of one of the sculptor Rodin’s Burghers of Calais. Rodin had captured the moment when the Burghers had, knowing they were about to die, surrendered themselves to the English in order to save their besieged town. She couldn’t recall the burgher’s name, but Rodin had given the man’s face such a realistic look of suppressed pain and clench-jawed determination, it was as though he were alive.
Not knowing why but feeling the need to offer some sort of comfort, Olivia placed her hand on Raimund’s shoulder. ‘What’s going on, Raimund?’
‘History.’
She sighed and withdrew her hand, but just as she was beginning to think that ‘history’ was all she was going to get out of him, he tilted the cup towards the light and pointed at the tiny etchings underneath the rim.
‘Can you read this?’
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table and then reached to take the cup from his fingers. To her surprise, he didn’t resist.
The words of the Chanson were very faint. Part of the rim was still encrusted with clay and would need careful cleaning before the inscription could be revealed. It would be a slow process. While the cup appeared solid, thirteenth-century pottery could be fragile, especially pieces that had been interred in such a harsh environment.
Olivia shook her head. ‘It needs restoration.’ She eyeballed him. ‘Using proper implements.’
Raimund placed his elbows on the table and rested his forehead on the heels of his palms. He rubbed hard at his head, as though trying to wipe out a terrible memory. Olivia’s gaze widened at the sight, the cup momentarily forgotten. Raimund Blancard, the man of no emotion, of eyes that gave away nothing, the man of cold, hard stone, was crumbling before her.
‘This burden is not meant to be mine.’ He dropped his hands and stared at her. ‘Three months ago I was in —’ He stopped and swallowed, as though he had been about to give away a secret and had only just caught himself in time. He took a deep breath before continuing. ‘I was on deployment with my men. I was doing what I liked, what I was good at. And then the photographs —’ He closed his eyes and bowed his head, his chest heaving.
Olivia didn’t want to ask. The look on his face told her the answer wouldn’t be pleasant, but she had to know. ‘What photographs?’
He raised his head as if to gaze at her, but his eyes were riveted on something only he could see.
‘I have seen many things during my time with the Legion, Olivia, but nothing like this. Nothing.’
Olivia held her breath. Raimund was no businessman. He was a soldier with the Foreign Legion, which as a Frenchman meant he could only be an officer in the French Army. The horrors of conflict would not be unfamiliar, yet whatever was in the photographs had shocked him deeply.
‘The first ones … I thought there was still hope. I could tell from his eyes that Patrice was still alive. In terrible pain but living. Then the others came.’ He buried his head again, his fingers tearing at his skull as if he wanted to dig inside his mind and drag out the harrowing images stored there.
Without thinking, Olivia put down the cup and folded her arms around his shoulders, stroking his back, soothing him as he had done with her. She didn’t know who Patrice was, but he was someone Raimund had loved very much.
For several heartbeats, he seemed to draw comfort from her embrace, but then he pulled away, the granite mask back in position. The stoic soldier had returned.
‘You must be hungry,’ he said. ‘I’ll heat some soup for you, but after you have eaten we must go.’
Olivia wrapped her fingers around his forearm. ‘Trust me, Raimund. Tell me what’s going on.’
‘No. It’s too dangerous.’
Her hand stayed in place. ‘Whatever’s going on, dangerous or not, if it’s something to do with La Tasse, then you need me.’
His eyes ran over her face as though assessing her sincerity, but he remained silent.
Olivia tightened her grip.
Without warning he smiled, then leaned forward and kissed her gently on the temple. ‘You are a very strong, very clever and very beautiful woman, Doctor Olivia Walker. I feel privileged to have known you. But it’s time you returned to England.’
Her stomach somersaulted at his words, at the tender touch of his lips, and for a brief moment she lost herself in a fantasy, but then reality crawled back to the surface.
She released his arm as though it were on fire and snatched up the cup from the table, holding it to her chest, her mouth set in a defiant line. Keeping her front facing him, she backed towards the door. If he wanted the cup, he’d have to come and get it, but he had better be prepared. She’d fight like an alley cat if she had to.
‘You can flatter me all you like, but it won’t work. I’m not leaving the cup.’
He held out his hand. ‘Olivia —’
She set her jaw, determined not to be fooled again by his slippery words. ‘It doesn’t belong to you. It belongs to the world.’
‘You are wrong. It belongs to no one but my family. It always has. It always will.’
Olivia frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’
Raimund said nothing.
Silence stretched and the air felt as tight as the wounds on her stomach. He wouldn’t stop staring at her, and she had the feeling she was being assessed in some way. Although only small, the cup felt heavier than it actually was, as though mystery had suddenly made it leaden.
Then Raimund sighed and pointed to the chair where her clothes had hung. ‘Sit down. We will talk.’
Suspecting some sort of trick, Olivia stayed where she was. ‘About what?’
‘What this is really all about. A sword called Durendal.’
Olivia brought the spoon to her mouth and sipped the soup Raimund had heated for her. For a Tetra Pak product, it tasted surprisingly good. The French predilection for eating only quality produce appeared to apply to convenience foods as much as haute cuisine.
The cup lay in its box close to her right hand, although Raimund had made no further move towards it. After ordering her to sit, he’d retreated to the cottage’s tiny kitchenette and busied himself with a pot and the small gas stove, not saying another word until he had placed a steaming bowl of soup on the table in front of her. Even then, it was simply another order to eat.
He sat down with his own bowl and toyed with his spoon. After a while, he pushed it away, the cooling soup untouched, and then began to speak.
‘When Roland was defeated at Roncevaux Pass in 778, rather than let the Basques take his sword, he threw Durendal into a stream.’
‘A poisoned stream, don’t forget,’ said Olivia, smiling. The story of Roland was full of embellishment, the poisoned stream being one of many.
Roland was a paladin, one of the twelve peers of Charlemagne’s court. A soldier who fought legendary battles for his king, a Knight of the Round Table well before knights or the Round Table existed.
Mighty warriors have great swords, and for Roland, his was not Excalibur but Durendal. However, just like Excalibur, Durendal was blanketed in myth and mystery. The stories were endless. While the tale of the poisoned stream was the most popular—given that it was immortalised in the Song of Roland, the first and greatest of the Chansons de Geste, the epic poems of the twelfth to fifteenth centuries—there were many others.
Olivia’s favourite had Roland, with his dying breath, heaving the sword back into France where it miraculously lodged itself into a cliff face above the Notre Dame Chapel at Rocamadour in the Dordogne. Neither this nor myriad other stories were true, although she had no doubt Durendal had survived the ages.
Where it was hidden, though, was another matter.
Raimund didn’t smile back at her. He simply continued his narrative. ‘Charlemagne returned to the battle site and retrieved the sword. We know from Einhard’s biography that Charlemagne took it back to his capital at Aix-la-Chapelle, but from there it was lost.’
Olivia knew all this, but that didn’t stop the fluttering in her chest. Raimund was about to divulge something she didn’t know. She was sure of it.
‘You’ve heard of Guy of Narbonne?’
She nodded. Guy of Narbonne was one of Charlemagne’s most trusted and loyal aides. His family had assisted the great Charles Martel, Charlemagne’s grandfather, in his conquest of Gaul and then allied themselves with the Carolingian kings. First Pepin and then on his death, Pepin’s son, Charlemagne.
Raimund took a deep breath. ‘Charlemagne gave Durendal to Guy for safekeeping.’
Olivia dropped her spoon into her half-finished soup and pushed it away as Raimund had done. She looked intently at him, searching his face for guile.
‘There are no records to prove that.’
There was a long pause before Raimund answered, as though he was about to admit something of great import and wanted to think twice about it.
‘There are.’ He held her gaze, his dark-brown eyes sincere. ‘I have records that follow the fate of Guy, Durendal and La Tasse right up until the fourteenth century when La Tasse was lost.’
Olivia stared at him with a mixture of disbelief and awe. If this were true, Raimund was sitting on a historical gold mine.
‘Guy was my ancestor, Olivia. He and all of his descendants were entrusted with guardianship of the sword. As far as we know, Le Chevalier Gris was the last to hold it in his hands. He is the one who hid the sword, before he left with Saint Louis on the Eighth Crusade to the Holy Land. But he left his descendants La Tasse as reference to its location. However we failed. The cup was lost, and with it Durendal.’
Olivia slumped back and rubbed at her mouth. This was too fantastic.
‘I am the last of Guy’s descendants.’
She stood up, wondering if now was when she was meant to start laughing, wondering if at any moment Raimund’s eyes would crease and his lips would twitch with suppressed humour. Neither happened.
‘Please tell me you’re joking.’
He kept his eyes on hers. ‘It’s true, Olivia. With Patrice’s death, the burden of finding Durendal falls to me. There’s no one else left to fulfil Guy’s promise.’
‘Patrice. He was your brother?’
Raimund nodded.
‘He was searching for the cup, for the sword, and now he’s dead?’
He didn’t answer but then he didn’t have to. The look on his face answered for him.
Olivia could barely speak. ‘What happened to him?’
Raimund’s expression turned black, fierce in the shadows cast by the poor light. His hands clenched into fists. ‘He was tortured and then killed by the man who is chasing us now.’
Shaking her head, Olivia sagged back onto the stool. ‘This is … this is just …’ She closed her eyes and tried to think. ‘Who is it that’s after us?’
‘His name is Gaston Poulin. He is,’ Raimund twirled his finger near his temple, ‘fou.’
‘Mad?’
For a moment, grief tugged at Raimund’s mouth and Olivia felt an overwhelming urge to comfort him, to press him once again to her chest and let him express some of that closely held pain.
‘Only a madman would take photographs of his handiwork and send them on as if they were mere postcards.’
‘But why did he kill Patrice? Even madmen have reasoning.’
Raimund rubbed his face and then let his hand fall. The dark circles under his eyes weren’t mere shadows, but the sign of a man who could see no end to his suffering.
‘When Charlemagne presented Guy with the sword for safekeeping, they thought they were alone. But the handover was witnessed by a young boy. A boy who believed Durendal belonged to him.’
Though Olivia guessed the answer, she asked anyway. ‘And who was this boy?’
‘Arnaud, Roland’s illegitimate son. Gaston is Arnaud’s direct descendant.’
‘And Gaston believes Durendal is rightfully his?’
‘Yes.’
‘No different to you then,’ she said wryly.
Raimund’s eyes turned to flint. ‘I am a captain in the French Army. I order my men to kill and will kill myself if required, but I am not, and never will be, a torturer.’
Olivia massaged her temples as the headache she’d thought she’d shed resurrected itself. This was ridiculous.
‘He will stop at nothing, Olivia. Which is why I must find Durendal first and settle this for all time.’
She dropped her hands, alarmed by what she heard in his voice. ‘And then what?’
His fierce gaze did not waver. ‘And then I will destroy it.’