As we head to the Notre Dame chapel, Julian inches closer to me and whispers in my ear, “I have a very special gift for you.”
Damn!What was I thinking when I vetted the list of invitees? On the other hand, I would’ve needed a rock-solid pretext to kick the future Duke of Rohinn off that list.
“What did you get me?” I ask.
“You’ll find out.”
“I don’t like surprises.”
“Trust me,” he says, “you’ll love this one.”
Oh, I doubt it.
Good thing my family and close friends have given up on that approach, after many failed surprises. These days, they run their ideas by me first, or simply ask me what I’d like as a present. That way, they know they’ll give me exactly what I want, and not what they mistakenly assumed I’d want.
For my thirtieth birthday, which marks my definitive and irrevocable entry into adulthood, Uncle Richard commissioned a diamond necklace that I codesigned with my favorite jeweler. Mother is giving my apartment at the palace a complete makeover, according to my specs. Max and Lucie have ordered a hybrid Range Rover for my countryside escapades, as per my request. Theo and Elise’s gift will be a lovely villa with a pool in South Beach, Miami, to escape to in winter. Arnaud and Sasha are giving me a large canvas by my favorite contemporary painter. Sophie is buying me the couture gown that caught my eye at the latest show by Dior.
There will be other lovely presents, all vetted by me.
The folks at the head of our group come to a stop. Those at the tail catch up with them in front of the chapel. Before we go in, Henri recounts the legend surrounding this place. A hermitcarved it into solid rock, working alone and using nothing but his bare hands.
We walk in through the door. The chapel’s centerpiece is the Black Madonna, la Vierge Noire. She possesses miraculous powers, Henri tells us. As I gaze at the wooden statue, I can’t help but compare her to other Mothers of God cut in marble or painted in oil that I’ve seen before. There’s something special, something uniquely touching about this one.
“Pilgrims from all over the country and from other parts of Europe come to seek blessings from la Vierge Noire,” Henri says.
I close my eyes and ask her to help me find the key.
Back outside, Henri points at an ancient sword protruding from the rock above the entrance of the chapel.
“It’s the magical sword of Durandal,” he says. “Charlemagne gave it to Roland. Later, Roland tossed it toward Rocamadour, because… er…”—he scrunches up his face, straining to remember—“reasons. The sword landed here, and it has remained embedded in that rock ever since.”
We stroll along the winding streets of Rocamadour. A sense of timelessness envelopes the village despite the swarms of tourists and the many shops selling overpriced crafts. I breathe in the scent of fresh bread wafting from a boulangerie and raise my camera to capture everything in the last, most photogenic light of the afternoon.
Henri catches my eye as I snap another pic. “For a future blog post?”
I nod. There’s no way I’m telling this cocky anti-royalist that I just made up my mind. My next guidebook will be about Dordogne.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It’s the third day of the retreat. We had a lovely critique session in the morning. For lunch, Odile served grilled fish and potatoes with parsley, garlic, and butter—simple yet delicious food. And now Henri’s business associate Jocelyn is giving the group a tour of the truffle farm. Audrey and I didn’t go, since we’d already seen it.
Instead, we’re in the château’s fruit orchard, swinging gently on the double swing. Around us, ripening apples and pears perfume the air. Dancing in the sunlight that filters through the foliage, butterflies flit from blossom to blossom and dapple the sky with their colorful wings. The rhythmic creaking of the swing as I sway back and forth calms my mind. With every upward swoop, I experience a moment of weightlessness, a respite from reality and failure.
I push my feet against the soft earth to keep the swing moving.
“You know,” I say to Audrey, “I keep thinking about the Notre Dame chapel in Rocamadour and Durandal’s sword over its entrance. What if they’re clues that could lead us to the Montevor key?”
She gives it some thought. “It’s possible. I hear stranger things happened during the hunts for the first five keys.”
Looking every bit the casual lord of the manor, Henri wanders toward us with his hands in his pockets.
He pauses by the swing. “I’m afraid I overheard your speculation.”
“And what do you think?” I ask.
“There’s no way an object hidden in that small chapel, visited by over a million people every year, could’ve remained hidden until now.”
I kick my feet, bringing the swing to a stop. “But what if the chapel has a secret crypt or a hidden chamber? Have you considered that?”
