Graëlfire: Cathar Grail Quest Saga, Book 1

Copyright © 2017 Stephen Chamberlain

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

The ancients believed there are thin places in the twilight world that stand on the boundaries between time and space. Doorways open at these thresholds. Pass through and you might not come back.

Contents

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

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19

20

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47

Acknowledgements

1

Bex, Switzerland

Lena Dubois waited. Shielded behind sunglasses, she stared at the Dent de Morcles. Its fang-like summit scraped radiant skies under a beating sun; her composure faltered beneath the glare.

Please, God… help me get through this. Just fifteen minutes, that’s all I ask.

Having no tears left, she bowed her head over the oblong pit – a fresh planting hole in a garden of polished slabs. Ceramic memorial portraits on nearby tombstones made her skin crawl. It wasn’t superstition that chilled her but the attention of the dead.

All those faces.

All those eyes.

The cemetery was alive with them.

She shivered in the sunshine and fastened her gaze on the brass plate screwed to the pinewood box. Its blunt inscription rocked her heart:

Dr Hélène Dubois

Aged 75 years

Just a name and a number! Gran’s life had been airbrushed. There was no mention of her personality, academic honours, or that in the ten years since her parents’ deaths, Gran had been like a mother to her.

She blinked back memories and steeled herself as four black-clad undertakers advanced to stand on each side of the coffin. Mannequin-stiff, they waited to gather the straps. At a nod from the priest, they bent their backs and manoeuvred the box over the void.

Sunlight glinted off polished handles.

Lena fumbled for the hand of her best friend, Marta, the only other mourner. When she looked up, the men in black were feeding Gran into the stony ground.

The clergyman’s prayer broke the hush. Oblivious to his words, Lena stared at the coffin lid. Dear Lord, she doesn’t belong at the bottom of a hole.

Blood drained from her head; her vision swam. Ground swirled beneath her feet.

Swaying, she leaned against Marta.

Oh, please. Not again! Not here, not now.

She closed her eyes to will the dizziness away. When she opened them again, the grave was a seething vortex.

She glanced up. Everything around her moved in slow motion, and the priest’s voice slurred in the drawn-out drawl of a low-speed playback.

Feeling the drag of an invisible force, she clamped her fingers on Marta’s arm. But the force pulled harder, sucking her down. Terrified she would pull Marta into the vortex, she let go and fell.

Darkness swallowed her, thick and dimensionless. Aware of her thoughts but not her body, she struggled to breathe without lungs. Panic burst out of confusion. Her mind had drained through a hole in the ground. Water down a plughole.

Without form, unsure of boundaries, she heard the priest’s voice and locked on to it. Her thoughts sprinted as it grew faint and petered out.

No! Don’t lose contact… don’t leak away!

Frantic, she fought to anchor herself to the world. Any deeper and the vortex might consume her.

Out of the nothingness a low bell tolled, the hollow clang of the church clock, counting the hours. Lena’s hope flared, but the bell’s warped dissonance obscured its direction and distance.

Where was it?

Above or below? Behind or in front?

Which way? Which way?

She zeroed in on the strike of the clapper.

Don’t let it go…

On the seventh chime, she felt a tug stronger than the pull of the vortex. It drew her back like smoke up a flue.

Marta’s face swam into focus as the clock struck noon. "Dios mío, Lena, are you all right? You passed out for a moment."

Lena raised a hand to her brow. Back in her skin, the world moved around her at normal speed and the pit was a grave once more.

I… I’m okay.

She gulped a breath and willed her head to clear.

The priest was so absorbed in the liturgy he seemed unaware of her distress. He scooped up a fistful of soil from the heap of earth and trickled it into the pit. Ashes to ashes; dust to dust.

Stones scattered with a clatter across the coffin’s shiny lid.

As the last of the dirt slipped through his fingers, movement in the old part of the graveyard hooked Lena’s attention.

She turned to look. Where nothing had been a moment ago, a silver-haired stranger stood, statue-still, among the tombstones. Wrapped in a trench coat, he watched her from below a broad-brimmed hat. She gazed back, transfixed by lacquer-black eyes vivid against the paleness of his face. Her heart thumped again. His skin had the alabaster pallor of a waxwork figure. Who was he? Why did he stare at her so?

A shift in the air filled her nose with lavender.

Miss Dubois?

Lena heard her name.

Miss Dubois?

She turned her head.

The priest’s face wavered, a mask of concern. We’re finished here.

Lena swallowed past a lump in her throat.

The undertakers will take you back to the manor in one of their cars, he said.

Thank you, Father, I…. Unable to disguise the catch in her voice, Lena glanced at the grave. We’ll walk. I’d like a moment with Gran, alone.

The priest hovered. He looked uncertain but dipped his chin. As you wish. My condolences on your loss.

He shook her hand and led the undertakers away.

Lena stooped. She plucked a single lily from the wreath she’d bought and dropped it into the grave. The sight of the waxy flower on the coffin lid raised another lump to her throat. First her parents and now her gran… it wasn’t fair. She was twenty-four years old and alone in the world. Why did everyone close to her die?

Marta’s hand touched her shoulder. Come on, it’s time to leave her.

Lena took a deep breath and crossed herself, a habit she’d picked up from the mission schools. Turning, she stole a glance at the pale stranger. His unblinking gaze sparked another shiver.

Her vision blurred again. As it cleared, Marta took hold of her elbow and Lena heard her voice, in mid-sentence, saying, … low blood sugar. I warned you to eat breakfast. No wonder you fainted.

I’m fine. Nothing a hot cup of tea won’t fix.

You need more than that inside you. Can you walk to the village?

Lena nodded. She turned towards the footpath, but a glance over her shoulder stopped her. Goosebumps erupted on her arms.

He’s gone!

Who?

She pointed. Where the stranger should have been, air shimmered in a heat warp. There was a man over there. Very pale… black eyes.

Marta turned to look. Most likely a gravedigger. She put up her hands and wriggled her fingers. Or maybe you saw a ghost. These grave portraits are enough to give anyone the spooks.

Lena pursed her lips. He wasn’t a ghost. He was there… flesh and blood. How had he slipped away? The only way out was through the gates where the gravediggers lingered. To leave, he would have had to cross her path.

She scanned the perimeter, narrowing her eyes at the back of the cemetery where tall shrubs formed a screen. Was he concealed behind them? She craned her neck to get a better view before Marta tugged her back. Arm hooked through the crook of Lena’s elbow, she made a beeline for the gates.

Twenty minutes later, they passed the Hôtel de Ville and entered the Place du Marché. At the heart of village life, Bex’s market square was surrounded by a hotchpotch of tall, stuccoed buildings with steep-pitched roofs to shed winter snow. Lena liked their faded fa

Ç

ades and weathered woodwork. They gave the place a timeworn charm which she’d drawn comfort from in the past. Today they reminded her that all things changed, even if slowly.

Aware she needed nourishment, she steered Marta towards the corner building with peeling shutters and flaking paint. Marta turned the heads of passers by as they walked. Lena understood why. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark clothing – Marta was a study in black from her lace-trimmed chemise and mid-thigh skirt to her ankle boots. The only colours she’d allowed were plum lipstick and violet nails. It was a look Lena could never pull off. The daughter of a French doctor and Spanish nurse, she’d been brought up in a string of African medical missions. Trendy boutiques and designer shops had belonged to a different world back then, and though she liked to wear nice clothes, she’d never mastered the knack of dressing chic. She glanced self-consciously at her simple charcoal dress. With her hair scraped into a dark ponytail, she felt plain by comparison. If only she had half of Marta’s Catalan flair…

The boulangerie’s aromas beckoned – roasted coffee beans and loaves warm from the day’s second baking. Lena chose an outside table under a glazed veranda that stretched the full length of the shop front.

A waitress stood by the door, tray braced against her hip. She smiled a welcome and sauntered over. "Mesdames?"

Lena ordered lemon tea and a tomato salad bagel, more to appease Marta than satisfy any urge to eat.

The waitress looked at Marta.

"Juste un café, s’il vous plaît."

Lena took Marta’s hand when the waitress turned her back. Thanks for the moral support. I don’t know how I’d have got through this morning without you.

Marta squeezed Lena’s fingers and returned the smile of a passing gendarme. That’s what friends are for. Much as I hate funerals, I couldn’t let you bury your gran on your own.

Lena thought back to the stranger. We weren’t alone, though. There was that guy standing among the tombstones. She leaned in. "You must have seen him. He was dressed in a dark overcoat and brimmed hat. He stared right at me."

Marta narrowed her eyes. It was the look she gave Lena when she thought her imagination had run away with her. In this heat? Lena, you’re overwrought… your nerves are threadbare.

I know what I saw—

You had a panic attack. I’ve seen it before – your mind plays tricks on you when you’re stressed.

Lena trawled a finger across the table. Now that Gran was dead, no one knew her better than Marta did. They shared student lodgings in Barcelona and kept few secrets from each other. Enrolled in different faculties at the university there, Lena in the Department of Medieval History, Marta in Psychology, they’d met during their fresher year and had been best friends ever since. Now in the first year of her PhD, Marta had adopted her as her guinea pig. Her diagnosis… Lena suffered from neurosis brought on by the death of her parents when she was a young girl. Locked deep in her subconscious, a fear of being alone manifested in fainting and anxiety attacks that, in turn, confused her senses. Lena wasn’t sure. She couldn’t even explain her out-of-body sensations, much less admit that she’d given them a name.

Still, she wondered if Marta had hit on what triggered her ‘untetherings’. She thought of the photograph of her mum and dad on the bedside table in Barcelona. Fourteen years old when they’d died, she’d kissed them goodbye as she’d left for the mission school. She never saw them alive again.

Marta leaned back and interlaced her fingers, the tell tale sign she was getting serious. Have you had hallucinations before?

Lena shook her head. She ached to open up about her untetherings – about how frightening they were now compared to when they’d started three years ago. But Marta already thought she was losing her marbles. She’d seen it in her eyes. Imagine her reaction if she described how her mind had been sucked into that hole in the ground. Marta’s friendship was too precious to lose.

Lena let her thoughts drift back to Gran’s gravesite and the stranger. She wished Marta had seen him. What’s happening to me? Why do I get these anxiety attacks? Funerals are supposed to give closure, aren’t they?

Marta affected her doctor-patient face. I really think you should see someone. You’re overtired and under-rested. Come to Barcelona with me tomorrow and I’ll speak to my professor. We’ll get you an appointment at the university hospital.

Lena sat up straight. Her inability to untangle what was real and imagined ate away at her. She plucked a few crumbs from her bagel and tossed them to the sparrows. I know I have a problem, but I can’t face coming back just yet. Gran’s death… it’s too much. I need a break from university, from Barcelona. I’m going to ask for compassionate leave.

What? Marta’s cup clunked into her saucer. You’re leaving Barcelona?

Only for a month or two. I promise I’ll see a doctor here next week.

Marta bristled. Why didn’t you say?

I’ve only just decided.

You’re not planning to stay in that creepy old house on your own?

Creepy old house! Lena sighed. The manor belonged to Gran’s sponsor, a reclusive count that lived overseas and funded Gran’s research. Marta had visited twice, and its rambling interior spooked her. But Lena loved the setting and tranquillity. Apart from the flat she shared with Marta, it was the nearest thing she had to a home. She’d stayed there as often as she could with Gran, who had acted as its caretaker.

She spooned the lemon slice from her tea and set it aside on her plate. It depends on whether the Count will let me stay on. I don’t know what his plans are for the place now that Gran’s dead. She winced at the uncertainty. If he didn’t, where else would she go? She had no family to speak of. No relatives she could turn to if she needed help. Her mother and father had been only children, and both her mother’s parents had passed away before she was born. It was possible there were relations on her father’s side, but Gran knew nothing of her family. Left as an orphan, she was too young to remember her parents, and the orphanage she’d been sent to had no record of any brothers or sisters, aunts or uncles. Even questions about the identity of Lena’s grandfather had gone unanswered. All Gran would say was that her need for a child hadn’t extended to a husband.

Lena blew out a sigh and wondered what hidden secrets her gran had taken to the grave. Not knowing made her feel… ambiguous. Other people, people like Marta, had roots: family recollections, old photograph albums and a sense of belonging. Yet she had nothing. As far as she knew, she was the last of her line.

Marta’s brown eyes softened as she reached for Lena’s hand. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you’ve decided to see a doctor. There are therapies and medication… you’ll be feeling your old self in no time. Her brow furrowed. What about the flat? I can’t afford the rent on my own.

Don’t worry, I’ll keep paying my share. I’ll only be gone a little while. And if the Count doesn’t let me stay at the manor and I have to rent accommodation here… well, it’ll take me over budget, but there’s the money Mum and Dad left me. I’ll be okay.

Marta looked as though she might argue, but then two soldiers in military fatigues pulled out chairs at the next table. One was dark-haired, the other fair. The fair-haired one gave Marta the eye. Marta uncrossed and re-crossed her legs and didn’t tug down her hitched-up skirt. She glanced at her watch and unthreaded her fingers. Enough gloomy talk. We need to take your mind off things. On the way from the airport I noticed billboards for a jazz festival in Montreux. How about we go there for a couple of hours? There’s a train at half-past. We’ll make it if we hurry.

Lena scrunched up her nose. Montreux was only a fifteen-minute ride away. Who could blame Marta for wanting to be outside, in sunshine, and away from the melancholy that hung over the manor house. For a moment she was tempted, but the funeral and untethering had drained her.

You go. I’m not in the mood, she said. I won’t be much company, and I want to clear Gran’s room this afternoon.

Marta’s frown came back. I don’t think you should be alone right now.

You’ve done enough. Anyway, I’d rather go through Gran’s things on my own. She forced another smile. Just promise me you’ll be back in time to meet with Gran’s executor.

They stared at each other across the table until Marta exhaled. If you’re sure…

I’ll see you later. Lena rose and planted three kisses, Swiss-style, on Marta’s cheeks. Now go, or you’ll miss the train.

2

Lena arrived at the front of the manor and delved into her bag for the remote key. One click and the wrought iron gates peeled back.

Beyond, catalpa trees formed a canopy over a pea-gravel drive that meandered through grounds resembling parkland more than garden. She stepped inside and surveyed the mansion through a break in the foliage. Bought by the Count two years ago and managed by her gran in his absence, it was oversized for modern families. Her gran used to say it had been built with pride and Lena thought that too, even though it was nowhere near as grand as the Count’s Languedoc château where she had lived with her gran after her parents died. That said, it still possessed a noble air. Three storeys high, with a peaked slate roof and zinc-clad lucarne windows decorating the attic, it conjured up a long-gone era of genteel living attended to by servants.

Lena often wondered why the Count had moved Gran here… why he maintained such grand properties he never stayed in. He was an enigma. No one but Gran had met him, and she only ever referred to him as ‘le comte’. Who was he? Where did he come from? And why had he funded Gran’s research all those years? These were all questions Lena had asked Gran, as had her parents, when they were alive. Titles were normally connected to places, they’d said. He must be the Count of somewhere. And yet, no matter how much they badgered, Gran’s lips remained sealed. More secrets she’d taken with her.

Frustrated over so many unanswered questions, she arrived at the veranda. The sight of purple wisteria in its second flush carried her back to the first time she’d seen the house. Fresh off the train from the airport for the spring break, she’d stood by the gates to stare and admire. She could see Gran now, standing in front of the French doors, smiling a welcome that made her feel instantly at home. After a nomadic childhood following Mum and Dad from one remote mission to another, ‘home’ became wherever Gran was. It was her anchorage… her place to go back to. Gran had been the one fixed point in a rootless life.

Brooding over the strange encounter in the graveyard, Lena rounded the house to the courtyard where two stone steps led up to the back door. She unlocked it and stepped over the threshold, closing the door on the world outside.

A few more stairs took her into the cavernous hallway: an octagonal space with a chequered marble floor and a whorled candelabra suspended from the ceiling. Only the solemn tick of a grandfather clock broke the hollow stillness.

She raised her head and followed the sweep of the balustrade up the stairwell. The atmosphere in the house niggled her. Though everything seemed in order, something wasn’t right.

As she placed her bag on a chair, an odd feeling struck her – a mood, a presence – call it what you will. She glanced over her shoulder half expecting to see someone… something. But there was nothing there, only empty walls.

Shrugging off her unease, she climbed the staircase to the first-floor landing where a high-ceilinged corridor stretched to the front of the house. On either side of it were rows of identical doors. She trod on creaking floorboards towards the second on the right, the door into her gran’s old room. Her pulse quickened as she touched the doorknob. This is it, she thought. Once I clear Gran’s belongings, there’ll be nothing left of her.

That odd feeling struck her again, and her other hand sought the charm round her neck, a golden dove with outstretched wings that Gran had bought her for her eighteenth birthday. It dawned on her then. What niggled about the house wasn’t a presence but absence. It was no longer a home – it was just a house.

She cracked open the door and hesitated in its frame. The inside was dim, silent. Half-light seeped through shuttered windows. The shadows seemed watchful, daring her to disturb them.

Summoned in by the scent of lily of the valley mixed with pot-pourri, she crossed the threshold. Over to her left stood a card table with a jigsaw puzzle on it, half assembled. Beyond, a solitary wasp began buzzing against the windowpane. Lena watched it dance across the glass.

Poor thing. How long had it been trapped?

She opened the window so it could escape through the shutters’ louvered slats.

Struggling not to cringe under the weight of unseen eyes, she crossed to her grandmother’s dressing table where a box inlaid with mother-of-pearl lay open on top. There wasn’t a lot she could see inside. Her gran had never worn much jewellery, and most of the trinkets were familiar. Lena’s fingers caressed them one by one: a silver brooch, a pair of diamond ear studs, and a wristwatch with a white gold bracelet. She scooped up the studs, picturing them on her gran’s ears. She’d always loved the way they caught the light. The image conjured up another – the special pendant Gran always wore on a chain around her neck. The family heirloom, she’d called it. Lena poked her finger through a tangle of pearls, searching for its open flower motif.

A rushing of blood swelled in her ears. Where was it?

She turned, taking in the Empire bed, the chintz covered sofa and the door ajar in the far corner.

Gran’s closet!

The pendant would be inside, she was sure.

Lena slipped into the walk-in wardrobe, pushed aside hangers and rifled through shelves. Her stomach dropped as she realized it wasn’t there. She was about to turn back when something caught her eye, half-hidden beneath a folded blanket. She bent down for a better look. It was a scuffed leather briefcase.

Lena pulled it into the light. Above the lock and her gran’s embossed initials, an old-fashioned luggage label hung from the handle by a piece of string. She flipped it over. Written in large block letters was a single word: LENA. Intrigued, she pressed the brass button beside the lock, but the latch didn’t give.

Merde! She gave the case a shake; nothing rattled or shifted. If it was empty, why was it locked and labelled with her name? And, where was the key?

Pushing the mystery to the back of her mind, she withdrew to the bedroom to continue her search for the pendant. She checked the nightstand drawers and found nothing inside. Crestfallen, she looked under the bed, beneath the mattress and even under the pillows. No sign of it there either!

That sinking feeling returned with vengeance.

Where did you put it, Gran? You always said you wanted me to have it.

Baffled, Lena sank into an armchair and closed her eyes. The lingering aroma of lily of the valley brought back memories of the vacations she’d spent with Gran helping her with her research in Occitan literature, following up references, reading drafts of articles and typing manuscripts. Such happy times! Was it any wonder she’d been fired up by her gran’s passion for medieval studies? Gran had trained her without her knowing it. But three years ago, all of that changed when Gran’s interest in Holy Grail myths had become a fixation. Why had she abandoned her academic career in pursuit of them? What fork in the road turned a world authority on Occitan literature into a laughingstock among her peers?

Lena’s weary mind drifted, searching for reasons.

A ping from her cell phone startled her awake. Bleary-eyed, she glanced at the screen. It was a text message from Marta.

Something’s cropped up. Won’t make it back for the reading of the will.

Lena blinked, wide-awake.

She thumbed the keypad. Where are you? She added a smiley to mask her disappointment.

Met up with a gorgeous man. His name’s Bruno… he’s a waiter.

What? Lena aborted her texting and called Marta’s number.

You hooked up with a guy?

I thought I’d be doing you a favour. You said you needed to be alone.

Lena spread a hand across her forehead and squeezed both temples. She hadn’t meant that, but it was close enough. Perhaps Marta had heard what she wanted.

She checked the digital clock on her phone’s screen: 16:23. Her appointment with the lawyer was at five. Careful not to hurt Marta’s feelings, she kept her tone light. Don’t worry. I’ll call you later. I have to run or I’ll be late.

3

Lena perched on the edge of a hard-backed chair, breathing in beeswax, leather, old books and stale cupboards. Maître Bonnard sat opposite. A tall bony man with a halo of white hair, he peered at her from behind a cluttered desk stacked high with files and papers. My deepest sympathies, Mademoiselle Madeleine, he said. "The death of a