Raimund’s voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the menace in it.
‘Stand up and walk away, Olivia. Take the first street you come to and keep walking. I will find you.’
Olivia hadn’t noticed his arrival but his words only sent her anxiety rocketing. He stood at the edge of the table, his back to the street and the other patrons. In one hand he held the aluminium case, in the other, a yellow Chocolaterie du Puyricard bag. Yet his demeanour was loaded with threat.
‘Oh, how delightful,’ said Gaston as though he were meeting an old friend, but without releasing Olivia’s hand. ‘If it isn’t Patrice’s heroic brother. I must say, you have wonderful taste in women.’
He caught a strand of Olivia’s hair in his fingers and caressed it as Raimund had done only the day before. She swallowed, trying to control the fear that had her breathing in shallow pants and sweat prickling her upper lip and forehead. He twirled his finger, wrapping the lock tight, and smirked at her. She stiffened, waiting for the yank on her scalp. It didn’t come. Instead, he raised his hand and splayed his fingers. Her hair uncoiled and drifted softly back to her shoulder.
‘Olivia, you say? Mmm.’ He rolled her name around his mouth as though tasting it. ‘Olivia. A fitting name for one so lovely.’
Raimund didn’t react, though his eyes remained anchored on Gaston. An outsider would assume he was talking to an acquaintance, but Olivia could see the tension in him. The hands tight around the case and bag. The mask of iron control. The way he stood, alert, wound, like a tiger ready to attack.
‘Silly of you to leave her alone. I would not have done such a thing. You never know who might be walking past. How lucky you were I was on hand to keep her company.’ Gaston smiled at Olivia, then turned to Raimund, looking him up and down. ‘I see you have not let Patrice’s unfortunate death upset you too much. But love is a marvellous antidote to sorrow, don’t you agree? And if I’m not mistaken, you and the adorable Olivia are very much in love.’ His thumb caressed the fleshy skin between her thumb and forefinger. ‘Very much. I never thought it possible, but I must admit to feeling quite jealous.’ He chuckled. ‘Imagine that. Me. Jealous of a Blancard.’
Olivia hauled on her arm, trying to free herself from Gaston’s grip, but his fingers tightened. His nails bit into the thin skin of the back of her hand. Incensed, she clenched her left fist and swung it hard towards his stomach, but Gaston easily caught the blow. He crushed his palm around her fist, over-bending her finger joints, mashing bone, tendons and cartilage.
She tried not to whimper, but the effort caused involuntary tears to sting her eyes. He smiled apologetically before releasing her hand, as though his reaction was accidental and contained no threat. The other remained in his grip.
Raimund took a step closer and leaned across the table, his eyes as cold and black as frozen tar.
‘Let her go.’
The words were calm, almost mild, yet they chilled Olivia’s sweat-soaked skin. The Raimund she knew had disappeared. In his place stood a soldier. A soldier facing his enemy. A soldier who would not hesitate to kill.
‘Now, why would I do that?’ asked Gaston. Then, with deliberate slowness, he lifted her right hand and kissed it. ‘She’s far too delectable.’
The touch of his mouth turned Olivia’s stomach. His lips lingered on her knuckles. She felt the hot dart of his tongue wet her skin, and then her hand was free. She scrambled upright, breathing hard and staring at this monstrous reptile who had crawled so easily into their enchanted afternoon.
‘Go to the car, Olivia,’ ordered Raimund.
She didn’t move.
He shot her a sharp, icy glare. ‘Now.’
Her gaze swivelled from Raimund to Gaston and back again. She didn’t want to leave him. She didn’t trust him not to do something stupid.
Though she realised it was folly, Olivia held her ground. She shifted close to Raimund’s side, but made no move to step around him. In a crowded brasserie, she doubted Gaston would try anything more than the tacit threats he had already made. Raimund, however, had the steely-eyed appearance of a man capable of snapping his nemesis’s neck with one hand.
Gaston smiled and took a sip of coffee, seemingly unperturbed. An American couple pushed their way past Olivia and Raimund to snatch the table she had vacated, muttering apologies in drawling southern accents.
No one spoke or acknowledged them.
As they settled, they eyed Raimund, then Olivia, then Gaston before putting their heads together and whispering to one another.
Gaston took another sip from the tiny cup, studying Raimund over the rim. He put it down and then leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. The two men faced off, their noses barely eighteen inches apart, assessing one another like wild bulls, picking their moment to charge.
A fear-soaked trickle of sweat crept down Olivia’s spine.
‘Your brother died slowly,’ he said, switching to French, his eyes glowing with malice. ‘Very slowly. He cried out for you. Kept calling your name as though he expected you to come and save him. I warned him it was pointless, but he was very stubborn. It took a long time to make him quiet.’
The aluminium case slammed onto the table. The espresso cup tipped over, its remaining contents spilling, leaking across the formica like blood. The Americans gasped. They stared at the scene, wide-eyed. Olivia grabbed Raimund’s arm, trying to steady him. The muscles were rigid, the tendons like cables, ready to snap.
‘Leave it. It’s not worth it. He’s not worth it.’
Gaston smiled charmingly at the gaping Americans. ‘I’m sorry. We French are very passionate, especially when a woman is involved.’
At first, the woman’s mouth formed an ‘O’ but then her pudgy face turned eager. She nudged her husband and pointed, as though this demonstration of French tempest was just for them, and not a second could be missed.
‘Please, Raimund,’ said Olivia, squeezing his arm.
‘Yes, Raimund,’ said Gaston mockingly, switching back to French. ‘Do as your woman says. But I would take better care of her, if I were you. It’d be a terrible shame if someone were to hurt such an intriguing companion, don’t you think?’
‘Touch her and you die.’
There was no ambiguity in Raimund’s tone. He meant every word.
It had no effect on Gaston. He tilted his head to one side and sighed theatrically. ‘Ah, love. Such a strong emotion, but a very useful one, too. Patrice felt it. Not that it did him any good, of course. It just made the agony worse.’
Olivia pulled on Raimund’s arm. ‘Please, Raimund. Let’s go. He’s baiting you.’
‘She’s right. I am baiting you.’ His expression hardened. The charming smile thinned. Evil glittered in his eyes, as if the devil had become man. ‘I want what’s mine. Your brother wouldn’t give it to me, but I promise you will.’
Raimund’s arm felt like steel, unresponsive, immovable. He bent further across the table, as though about to divulge a secret. His voice was quiet, but its frigid calm sent a tremor of apprehension puckering Olivia’s skin.
‘And I promise you’ll never touch your precious legacy. I’m going to destroy it, Gaston. And when I’ve finished, you’ll be left with nothing but your madness and the echo of my laughter in your ears.’
‘You wouldn’t dare break your family’s vow.’
Raimund straightened and smiled without humour. ‘Thanks to you, I have no family. But I have a vow. And my vow was made at Patrice’s grave. It’s unbreakable. Don’t underestimate me, Gaston. I will see you suffer.’
Rage twisted Gaston’s mouth into an inhuman snarl. The madness he had so carefully hidden burst like a festering boil. He crouched, half upright. A Dr-Jekyll-turned-Hyde, the facade of sanity lost. The creature underneath exposed.
‘Oh, my,’ gasped the American woman.
No one paid her any attention.
Raimund lifted the case off the table, his expression smug, taunting his enemy as he had been taunted. Olivia placed her trembling hand on his back, wishing he would just leave. Gaston was dangerous and unpredictable. A psychopath with a mission. The crowds, the gawping Americans, the approaching poker-faced waiter would not stop his boiling fury. One wrong word could tip him over the edge.
‘You will never touch the sword,’ said Raimund. ‘Never.’
In one corner, Gaston’s top lip rose, exposing a crooked incisor tooth. His hands curled like claws. A warning rumbled in his throat, deep and feral.
Then as abruptly as it had appeared, his madness fled. The muscles in his face relaxed and subsided into benign pleasantry. Tutting at the mess, he set the upended cup back in its saucer, and then straightened, gazing around as though reorienting himself. Collected and terrifyingly normal.
He regarded Olivia and then Raimund, and sighed deeply. ‘Then I fear I have no choice but to hurt someone else you love. A pity. Your woman possesses exceptional allure.’
Olivia shoved Raimund hard in the back, but it was like trying to move a statue.
He pointed at Gaston. ‘This is your last warning. Touch her and you’re a dead man.’
‘Il y a un problème?’
The waiter stood at the table casting irritated looks between the two men.
‘No,’ said Olivia in French. ‘We were just leaving.’ She gave Raimund another push. This time, to her relief, he yielded.
Under the scrutiny of the waiter, Gaston and the speechless Americans, they stepped away from the restaurant and out into the flow of pedestrians. Raimund transferred the chocolaterie bag to the same one that held the case and then grabbed Olivia’s hand.
‘Move,’ he said. ‘Quickly.’
Without looking back, he pulled her up the Cours Mirabeau and then slipped down the first street that appeared. As they turned the corner, Olivia checked behind. Gaston had returned to his seat, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, his face turned to the Americans, smiling and chatting as though nothing had happened. Then he looked up and caught her eye. The smile turned wolfish, a hunter who had found his prey.
Raimund didn’t run, but his strides were long and urgent. He dragged Olivia through the winding medieval streets of the old town, side-stepping shoppers and tourists, evading the metal bollards that lined the streets. Olivia’s sandals slipped and caught on the cobblestones as she ran to keep up. Several times she stumbled, and each time Raimund silently hauled her upright and moved on, intent on escape.
They passed through the heaving market area of the Place des Prêcheurs, heavy with the mingled scents of ripe fruit, vegetables, cheese and charcuterie. A tight gap appeared in the last row of stalls. He skirted a trestle table filled with colourful spices, herbs, grains and pulses. As she struggled to keep up, Olivia accidentally knocked over a sack of salted cod. The stall owner waved his fist and swore. She called out her apologies but Raimund ignored him, towing her out of the market and hurrying down the side of La Madeleine church before changing direction once more.
Though the streets became quieter and less populated, not once did he speak. Nor did he ease his pace. Despite her inadequate footwear, Olivia was given no quarter.
Several turns later they reached the junction of Rue d’Italie and the périphérique. Raimund’s step didn’t slow. He steered them through the maze of people, scooters and cars towards the Peugeot, his head swivelling constantly, alert for danger.
He stood by the car door surveying the street as she stepped inside. The door slammed shut and in seconds he was in the driver’s seat, thrusting the case and bag into her lap, and revving the engine. Despite his head touching the roof, this time, he didn’t lower it. Unlike that morning, this would be no happy drive.
Two easy moves and the car was on the road and swerving through traffic, leaving a cacophony of horns, screeching tyres and a wave of arms in its wake. He ducked across two lanes and wrenched the wheel hard to the right, skidding up a tree-lined avenue and racing away from centre ville. He drove with easy competence, his expression neutral, as though dramatic escapes from madmen were an everyday occurrence.
Turn after turn had Olivia’s head spinning. Nausea churned her stomach, but she didn’t know if it was from car-sickness, the aftermath of her confrontation with Gaston, or the final comprehension that Raimund meant every word he said.
His promise was inviolable. There would be no reprieve, no bowing to persuasion. He would destroy Durendal and take pleasure in his revenge.
Leaving her with nothing.
She moved the case and bag to the floor and sank back into the seat with her hands over her face. Her skin felt sticky and clammy, as though she was suffering an illness or in great pain. She tried to erase it, to bury it deep in the catacombs of her mind, but Gaston’s maniacal smile kept springing into her head like an evil goblin.
Until now, the threat hadn’t seemed genuine. She had felt insulated in Rognes, muddling about in the archives, scraping away at La Tasse. The terror of the chateau had seemed a lifetime ago. It had happened, but distraction and the distortion of hindsight had made it surreal, as though she’d seen it in a movie or it had happened to someone else.
Raimund’s grief had been genuine, too. Patrice was dead, murdered, he said, by Gaston. But she had felt distanced from the reality. He had been tortured, that much she knew, but she had never been given the details and nor had she sought them. Her heart and mind had been elsewhere, unconcerned with danger.
Now it was real.
‘You are okay?’
Olivia dropped her hands. Raimund made a rapid scan of her face and body, his brow furrowed.
‘No. I’m not.’
‘You are hurt?’
She squeezed her eyes shut. Hurt didn’t begin to describe how she felt. Terrorised, sick and worried were better descriptions, but most of all she felt betrayed. Let down by herself. Let down by Raimund.
‘I’m not hurt.’
The car slowed and then stopped. She opened her eyes, expecting to find him pulled over, but he had simply reached a busy intersection. He waited for several cars to pass before merging into the traffic. Two more turns and he was on the A51 heading south to Marseille. Olivia rested her head against the cool glass of the passenger window.
It was no surprise he took the Les Milles–Vitrolles exit onto the D9. She’d expected his response to Gaston’s threats to involve a swift trip to Marignane airport. Although how he thought he would smuggle her on board a plane to England without her passport was anyone’s guess. Perhaps he would hold her prisoner in the car until Edouard arrived with her luggage, or lock her in a nearby hotel room until he’d arranged transport.
Well, he could go to hell. She would not be forced into leaving. She would not abandon La Tasse and she would not allow him to destroy the world’s precious history. Durendal had a new protector. And she would do whatever it took to save it.
As for her feelings, she would just have to learn to deal with them the best way she could. There were more important things at stake than her heart, more precious things than her ill-placed hankering for Raimund.
And if she told herself that enough, in time, she might end up believing it.
Semi-suburban towns, boxy shopping centres and industrial areas flew by. Olivia stared at them, at cars, at people going about their lives, and tried to cope with her swirling emotions. Raimund stayed quiet, but she felt his eyes constantly leaving the road to drill into her flesh like lasers.
The industrial landscape gave way to craggy countryside. Heat hazed the shrivelled hills. They sped past Le Lac Bleu, past tiny vineyards and farmland, before converging back into the dense towns of the south, each kilometre bringing them inexorably closer to Marignane.
Olivia wished he would say something, but like her, he seemed compelled to silence. The car’s air curdled with her churning thoughts. This was worse than when they had left the gîte. Back then, he had given her nothing, just a brief glimpse of torment hastily masked. It was easy to feel hate, easy to think only of herself. She had yet to peel back his veneer of stoicism, yet to touch the honourable, kind and compassionate man beneath.
Rognes had changed everything. He’d granted her unlimited access to the archives, handed her his most treasured possession like a lover’s gift. But worse, in unguarded moments, he’d granted her access to himself. Like a fool, she’d weakened, mesmerised by what she’d seen. Her despondency and faltering faith had given way to optimism and anticipation. Then at lunch, as he touched her shoulder and felt her skin and murmured his soft words, she’d believed he’d caught her disease. That he had succumbed to his rush of want.
How overwhelmed she had been. How stupid.
And now, when she needed to hate him as she had done for that fleeting moment in the Clio, when she needed to sever herself from the memories of what she’d seen, what she felt, she couldn’t let go.
The airport turnoff sign loomed in the distance. Olivia reached for the case and perched it on her knee. She unhooked the latches and opened the lid. Nestled in foam, the partially exposed riddle teasing her with its unsolved mystery, lay La Tasse.
‘I won’t leave it,’ she said, but in her heart, the words sounded wrong. A thought invaded, an unwelcome notion that made her chest tight and her jaw tense. Maybe it wasn’t La Tasse she couldn’t leave.
‘I know.’
She stared at him. ‘Then why are you taking me to the airport?’
‘I’m not.’ He eyed her for a moment. ‘Not straight away.’
‘But you intend to.’
‘Yes.’
She rested her eyes back on La Tasse, trying to work him out, and then it dawned on her. Before he could achieve anything, La Chanson du Chevalier Gris had to be uncovered and solved, and for that, he needed her.
Despite her promise, she could refuse to help, but she wasn’t the only expert in the world. Others could be bought, and while none would have her depth of knowledge, eventually they would solve the riddle.
Raimund would have his prize, while she would lose any chance of holding hers.
In every way he had her trapped.
The entrance to the airport came and went. Raimund stayed on the D9, but at the turnoff to Carry-le-Rouet he indicated and veered onto the coast road. La Tasse went back to the floor. She would not be saying goodbye.
Not yet. Not ever.
The Mediterranean glittered as though a giant had scattered it with sequins. Olivia admired the yachts bobbing in the marinas, the tanned sightseers promenading in the sun, and wished she could swap lives.
Carry-le-Rouet gave way to the village of Sausset-les-Pins. Past the town centre, they climbed a small rise, hugging the coast. At the top, Raimund indicated again and pulled into a driveway, stopping in front of two solid timber gates set back from a high brick wall.
He leaned out of the window and tapped a code into a panel set into the brickwork. The gate swung open. He put the car back into gear and drove through. In the side mirror, Olivia watched the gates swing closed. After a short climb, the Peugeot came to a rest, but the engine stayed running, the air conditioner whirring quietly.
‘This was my parents’ villa,’ he said, unclipping his seatbelt and twisting in the seat to look at her. ‘We’ll be safe here for a time.’
She nodded, then stared out the side window at the luscious terraced garden stepping away towards the sea, resplendent with glossy ferns, rioting flowers and huge, shady trees.
He brushed her hair away from her face. ‘Please, Olivia. Look at me.’
She bit her lip. The tenderness in his voice sent her throat aching. She wanted to give way to tears but had no idea why. Perhaps relief had made her emotional.
His hand strayed to her cheek, the knuckles gentle on her skin. For a few thudding heartbeats she savoured his touch, then she blinked and batted his hand away.
Why was he acting like this? Pretending he cared when she knew damn well he didn’t.
‘Yes. You have every right to be angry. I should never have left you alone.’
‘It’s not that.’
It wasn’t anything. Just a mess she’d made for herself, a tangle she couldn’t untie.
She could feel him studying her in that way he had. Like a scientist analysing a creature squirming in a Petri dish, or a psychologist with a patient, interpreting the nuances of body language.
Their breathing sounded loud in the confines of the car, as though they were both still recovering from the escape. But this wasn’t the breath of physical exertion. This was the breath of something else.
When he spoke, his voice sounded husky, like it had in the archives that morning when he’d traced her tear with his thumb, when she’d been stupid with hope.
‘I would never hurt you, Olivia. Not intentionally.’
She tore at the door handle and pushed it open, needing air, needing to escape the intimacy of the car. The seatbelt jerked her to a stop. Her fingers fumbled on the clasp until finally she was free.
She stood on the driveway with her hands on her knees, hauling in lungfuls of hot summer air, her hair falling around her face in sweaty straggles. The sun burned like a brand, a punishment for her stupidity.
Raimund grasped her shoulders, urging her upright. She couldn’t look at him, afraid of what she would see. False concern or worse, his indifferent mask. With both hands, he swept her hair from her face and cupped her jaw.
There was no indifference, only sorrow.
‘You must understand. I made a promise. To Patrice. I must see it through.’
‘There are other ways to get revenge, Raimund. You could go to the police.’
‘There’s no evidence. The investigating magistrate believes Patrice was mixed up in the drug trade. It’s the only way he can account for what was done to him. Patrice’s blood was heavy with narcotics. Gaston’s doing. A way to control him as well as mislead the police into an easy explanation for his death.’
‘But you have the photographs.’
Anguish tugged at the corners of his mouth. ‘No.’
She opened her mouth to speak but he interjected.
‘I burned them.’
‘But why?’
He let her go and half turned from her, his fingers digging into his brow. ‘I could not allow anyone to see Patrice like that.’
Olivia swallowed. She didn’t want to know, but at the same time she had to. She had to understand what Raimund had seen to make him like this. To make him swear at his brother’s graveside he would destroy Durendal.
‘What happened to him?’
He closed his eyes.
‘Please. Tell me. I need to know.’ She clutched her fingers to his chest, crumpling the soft cotton of his shirt. ‘I have to know why you want to destroy the very thing you’re meant to protect.’
He pulled her hands away and held them. ‘Trust me, Olivia. This is something you do not want to know.’
‘Tell me, please.’
‘No.’
‘Raimund —’
He thrust her from him, angry with her interrogation. His fingers returned to his brow, digging as though he wanted to drill into his skull.
‘You want to know? You want to know what happened to Patrice? What torture he endured?’ His face crumpled with agony. ‘He was crucified, Olivia. Like Jesus Christ. Except he wasn’t the son of God, he was my brother, and the only faith he had to cling to was me.’
He took a shuddering breath.
‘And I did not come.’