The French Prize Read online

  The French Prize

  CATHRYN HEIN

  www.harlequinbooks.com.au

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Cathryn Hein was born in South Australia’s rural south-east. With three generations of jockeys in the family it was little wonder she grew up horse mad, finally obtaining her first horse at age 10. So began years of pony club, eventing, dressage and showjumping until university beckoned.

  Armed with a shiny Bachelor of Applied Science (Agriculture) from Roseworthy College she moved to Melbourne and later Newcastle, working in the agricultural and turf seeds industries. Her partner’s posting to France took Cathryn overseas for three years in Provence where she finally gave in to her life-long desire to write. Her short fiction has been recognised in numerous contests, and published in Woman’s Day.

  Cathryn’s first three novels, Promises, Heart of the Valley and Heartland were finalists in the 2011, 2012 and 2013 Australian Romance Readers Awards. Rocking Horse Hill is her fourth rural romance novel. The French Prize is her first romantic adventure story.

  Cathryn currently lives at the base of the Blue Mountains in Sydney’s far west with her partner of many years, Jim. When she’s not writing, she plays golf (ineptly), cooks (well), and in football season barracks (rowdily) for her beloved Sydney Swans AFL team.

  www.cathrynhein.com

  For Jim

  CONTENTS

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER

  1

  The heavy clay soil was stubborn, but no match for Dr Olivia Walker’s determination. With a final scrape of her leaf trowel, the goblet eased free. She bent forward, took a deep breath and blew away the last clinging crumbs of dirt, then carefully levered the goblet from the ground.

  Triumph flooded her chest as she held it up to the sun. She’d found it at last. La Tasse du Chevalier Gris. The Cup of the Grey Knight. A crude pottery drinking vessel, amazingly intact after nearly seven hundred years interred in the harsh Provencale landscape. Despite its small size, it sat heavy in her hands, like a burden that needed to be passed on. She shook her head. Her imagination was getting away again.

  ‘C’est magnifique,’ said the man beside her, kneeling, like her, in the dirt and dust. Raimund Blancard’s espresso-coloured eyes fixed on the goblet, the artefact for which his family had searched over half a millennium. His passion. His prize.

  And Olivia’s.

  The discovery of La Tasse du Chevalier Gris would catapult her into international academic stardom and finally silence her critics, the crusted and bitter detractors who scoffed at her theories and called them the fantasies of a brilliant but misguided mind. The goblet was her Holy Grail as much as Raimund’s. She was the one who’d trawled through Cathédrale Saint-Sauveur’s rotting archives, turning hundreds of mouldy, putrid pages until her fingers had turned the same grisly brown as the decaying parchment. She was the one who’d breathed the dust of Raimund’s ancestors into her lungs, who’d heard them speak in their ancient langue d’oc, the almost forgotten language of southern France. She was the one for whom all the clues had fallen into place.

  And she was the only one who could decipher the true meaning of the goblet’s inscription.

  ‘Oui,’ she replied. ‘It’s magnificent.’

  On first inspection, the goblet appeared nondescript—a simple pottery cup with a stumpy, crudely sculpted base. An item of no particular value to anyone except an academic. But around the top edge, just under the slightly curved lip, lay an inscription. La Chanson du Chevalier Gris. The Song of the Grey Knight. A riddle which, when solved, would lead to the hiding place of one of the most famous swords in history. Roland’s fabled Durendal.

  It was that which made it priceless.

  She held it out to Raimund, inviting him with her eyes to take it from her hands. He glanced at her, an unusual show of hesitation in one normally so self-assured, and she smiled.

  ‘Take it, Raimund. I know how much it means to you.’

  And she did. After all, it was his ancestor, Antoine Blancard, dying of the plague, who had hidden the cup.

  She had never believed the legend of La Tasse being secreted in the Vatican, locked away lest someone solve the riddle and bring the unknown power of Durendal back into the world. But until Raimund Blancard, with his vague tale of family lore that sent her skin tingling, strode into her life and handed her the chance to chase her dream, she’d had neither the time nor the resources to prove the legend false. The search for La Tasse had remained her much-derided hobby, never her livelihood. Until now.

  Their fingers brushed as he reached for the goblet and closed his hands around the bowl. For a brief moment, his burning gaze focused on hers before returning to the cup, and she wondered if he experienced the same leap of excitement in the pit of his stomach that always affected her when they touched, then shook off the idea. Raimund, she’d discovered these last few months, was a man made of stone. Although, looking at him now, it was easy to think otherwise.

  He held the goblet gently, like a newborn, his strong Mediterranean hands cradling it with what she could only describe as reverence. He traced a finger around the lip, heedless of the chipped, rough edges, and tilted the goblet forward, his eyes hungry for the inscription.

  ‘I should have employed you years ago,’ he said in precise but accented English.

  He turned to look at her and her stomach curled. Not at the compliment, but at the undisguised admiration in his eyes, as if at last he saw her as she really was—an intelligent, attractive woman, and not just a means to an end. But like all glimpses of his emotions, the look fluttered away as fast as it arrived, an ephemeral response that left her debating whether she’d seen it at all.

  She threw him a wink. ‘Ah, but think of all the fun you’d have missed.’

  For a half-second, his mouth twitched, then he returned his attention to the cup, spoiling her chance to sight a rare smile. She didn’t know why she bothered to make jokes. Raimund Blancard might be stomach-squirmingly sexy, but the man was totally devoid of humour.

  She held out her hands for the goblet. It took a few moments for him to pass it over, as though now he had hold of it, he couldn’t bear to let it go. She concentrated on packing it carefully into the small, foam-padded aluminium case she’d prepared in readiness, only pausing to wipe the sweat out of her eyes and pluck at her shirt, pulling it away from her damp skin in an effort to cool herself. She cast a jealous look at Raimund, amazed he could look so cool in the burning midday sun. Even knee-deep in dust amid the remnants of an ancient chateau he remained handsome, unruffled and beautifully Gallic.

  Olivia estimated he was in his early thirties, not much older than herself, although in unguarded moments, something she couldn’t quite fathom deepened the lines around his eyes and mouth, making him appear older and more world-weary. He called himself a businessman, yet what business he was in she couldn’t discern. Whatever it was, it left him free to assist her in her research whenever she called. Which, she had to admit, she’d sometimes needlessly done. Understandable when the man filled out a pair of jeans to saliva-inducing perfection and strained shir
ts with muscled, Greek-statue beauty.

  She snuck a look at him out of the corner of her eye, her gaze hovering on the mysterious streak of pure white hair just above his right ear. Once she’d commented on the brutal shortness of his hairstyle, working herself up to ask about the white streak, but he’d merely shrugged and blamed a bad hairdresser. It was a lie. The severe style hadn’t changed in the two months she’d worked for him and the untruth put her off probing further, although it did nothing to halt her attraction. The suggestion of mystery combined with his long-limbed, muscular physique gave Raimund an irresistible bad-boy air—the deliciously sexy aura of a man who might be dangerous to know—and a very welcome change to the pasty-faced academics who usually colonised her world.

  Not that her interest had ever been returned.

  She resumed her task, silently cursing her practical but inelegant field clothes as she tucked layers of bubble wrap around the artefact until it lay safely cocooned in a chrysalis of plastic and air.

  ‘I need to get this back to the university so I can start the restoration,’ she said, shutting the case lid, snapping the clips and securing the box with a chain of cable ties.

  Raimund’s eyes flicked over hers and then away towards the tree line. He raised his hand and dug his fingertips into a point above his left eye. A curious gesture he made often, as if he suffered from a persistent and localised headache. ‘No. I have already made arrangements for the restoration.’

  A hornet’s nest of alarm buzzed Olivia’s insides. They’d already discussed the restoration, speculated on the equipment required, the experts they’d need to consult, and not once had he disputed that the task would be hers. And she’d worked too damned hard and dreamed too long to have La Tasse taken away now.

  She narrowed her eyes, her tone icy as she articulated every word, determined to show she wouldn’t be denied her goal, that she could be as obstinate as him. ‘I’m the best person for the job. As you well know.’

  It had no effect. He rose to tower over her in pale chinos and a pristine white polo shirt, and brushed dust from his knees with long fingers. ‘Your assistance has been invaluable, Olivia, and I thank you. However, your involvement in this project is now at an end. I will take care of La Tasse from here.’

  Her hand flattened protectively over the case as she attempted to control her temper and muster her thoughts. His dismissal stung. A lot. Apparently, it didn’t matter that she was an Oxford academic with a PhD and an emerging reputation as one of the world’s finest crusade historians. In his opinion, she wasn’t good enough for the cup’s restoration, only his dirty work. Dirty work no one but her could have managed.

  The cold-blooded man had used her. Well, he might be stubborn but Raimund Blancard was about to discover the true meaning of intractability.

  She rose, calmly patted dirt from her knees as he had done, and stepped forward until she could eyeball him, although given his height, she had to tilt her head back to do it.

  ‘And whom did you have in mind to undertake such a delicate task, Monsieur Blancard?’

  That got his attention. Olivia had only ever called him Monsieur Blancard at their first meeting.

  His eyes fixed on hers. ‘Do not worry. Your efforts will be well rewarded.’

  ‘I’ve been well rewarded already,’ she snapped. She didn’t care about money. The only reward she wanted was the opportunity to study the cup and decipher the inscription. She’d waited years for this. Give up La Tasse du Chevalier Gris? Who was he kidding? It wasn’t going to happen. Not while she still breathed.

  ‘I demand to know who you have for the restoration. Is it Nicholas Mansfield? Because if you’ve chosen him over me, you’ve made a big mistake. The man’s a fool.’

  Raimund’s eyes glittered dark and intense in the bright sunshine, but his expression remained as impassive as ever. ‘This is no longer your problem.’

  ‘No?’ Anger swirled inside her like a Fury unleashed, but as she opened her mouth to speak, he smoothly interjected.

  ‘La Tasse is mine. It was found on my land. I will do with it as I choose. Compris?’

  ‘No, I do not compris!’ She took another step forward, now so close she could smell the subtle spice of his skin. It didn’t distract her. Not this time. She poked a steady finger towards his chest, every romantic thought she’d held about him destroyed by his rejection. ‘Now you listen to me. If it weren’t for me, you’d still be crawling around the Dordogne chasing ghosts. I’m the one who found La Tasse, and I’m the one who should restore and study it. The goblet is mine as much as yours, Monsieur.’

  She tossed him a last filthy look and reached down for the case. As her fingers touched the aluminium, something whistled past her ear, like the hum of a passing insect in full flight, then a loud crack broke the torpid silence. Puzzled, she turned her face to Raimund only to be sent sprawling by a shove in the back.

  ‘Get down!’

  Dust blasted into her mouth and eyes. A stone dug painfully into her cheek and her left shin smarted like crazy from the rock it had hit. Blinking away the grit, she raised her head, coughing raggedly. Behind her Raimund growled something in French, and despite her fluency, such was her shock it took a few seconds for his words to register. She coughed again, her eyes watering and her mind racing.

  Guard? What did he mean ‘where’s the guard’? They were in Provence for goodness’ sake, not Afghanistan. And why had he just pushed her face first into the ground?

  Another crack echoed through the valley. Gunfire. Panic twisted and slithered in her gut, and she let out a low moan of fear as she looked around desperately for Raimund. He was crawling on his stomach like a character from a commando film, eyes flicking from side to side as he scanned the shimmering landscape.

  He wriggled parallel to her. ‘You are okay?’

  She nodded, not feeling okay at all. Another gunshot clapped in the distance. Two sharper-sounding shots followed, then a cry that catapulted a cold jolt of fright down her spine. Someone had been hit.

  ‘Raimund.’ Even to her own ears, her voice sounded tremulous and far away. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  He didn’t answer, instead he narrowed his eyes in the direction of the gunshots. Then he looked to the right, towards what remained of the chateau’s southern wall, and pointed at the crumbling stone. ‘We’ll try for there. It will provide some protection.’

  He reached out for the box. Glaring, Olivia jerked it out of reach. She might be terrified but she still had some wits.

  ‘Give it to me, Olivia.’

  ‘No.’

  He stared at her, his eyes hard. ‘We do not have time to argue. Give me La Tasse.’

  She jammed the box under her arm. ‘No. Now, are you going to lie there arguing all day, or are you going to move?’

  Swearing in French and casting her a last angry glower, Raimund snaked forward, using his elbows to gain purchase on the rocky ground. After a few metres, he stopped and looked behind. ‘Keep your head down. This man does not care who he kills.’

  ‘Who is he?’ Dread made the words catch in her throat. She swallowed, but her mouth remained dry and sticky with dust. She copied Raimund’s actions, grimacing as her shirt snagged on stones and sharp edges tugged at her skin. As she crawled, her long auburn hair escaped its ponytail and flopped in sweaty hanks around her face. She let it hang, too intent on reaching safety to brush it away.

  After a painful eternity, she reached the wall and gratefully shoved her back against its solid bulk, panting and eyeing Raimund. He stood with his cheek pressed against the stone like something out of an American police drama. Except in this instance, he wasn’t peeking around doors or through keyholes, he was staring through the remains of a medieval arrow slit in a ruined chateau in the south of France while a real man, using a real gun with real bullets, shot at them.

  A strange urge to giggle hysterically fluttered in her chest. The situation was too surreal to be true. She was a historian, not some whip-crackin
g, gun-toting female Indiana Jones or real-life Lara Croft. She taught Oxford University undergraduates about the crusades. She went to faculty parties and ate stale, curling sandwiches and drank cheap white wine with all the other academics. Admittedly, she had some unorthodox ideas, but they were only unorthodox because the establishment was too pigheaded to acknowledge the truth.

  She fingered the case sitting in her lap. Inside lay vindication for all the years of mockery and ridicule she’d endured. The cup was no longer a myth, a bedtime story told to French children, a legend from the court of the beatified King Louis IX. It was real.

  And that meant so was Durendal.

  ‘He’s coming.’ Raimund crouched beside her. ‘We cannot go back along the path. We must go down. The trees are our only hope.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘There’s no time for explanation. We must leave here. Now.’

  He crept to the edge of the wall, where it gave way to a precipitous slope, and peered down. Like most medieval fortresses the chateau sat on a hill, but in this case, one side rose so steeply it resembled a cliff. Olivia’s highly tensile nerves vibrated even harder as Raimund, his features scarily calm, continued to inspect the dangerous drop to the valley below.

  He beckoned her, scowling at her reluctance to move. ‘Quickly.’

  With her fingers hooked tightly around the case’s handle and her heart hammering within her ribs, she crawled to the edge and stared over. Weathered and pitted grey rocks of terrifying sharpness jutted from the cliff face like wolves’ teeth. An occasional hardy, stunted shrub poked out sideways from between them, while the remainder of the surface comprised loose dirt, scattered pebbles and broken-off shale. The ground at the base stretched grassless, parched and littered with fallen rocks. There’d be no soft landing if she fell.

  She stared back at him in disbelief. ‘How?’

  Raimund raised his eyes skyward and muttered something in French she couldn’t catch before crouching down next to her. ‘There are handles, see?’ He pointed at the sharp rocks and dark crevices. ‘I will take La Tasse to free your hands.’ When Olivia shook her head, he sighed but didn’t argue further. ‘And I will go first. That way if you fall, I can catch you.’