The Expected One

by Kathleen McGowan

  When she was certain the car was well out of range, Maureen picked herself up and shook the brush off. She kept moving, following the road. She glanced up at the château, now in the distance — was that a light in an upstairs window? She squinted for a moment, trying to determine where that window would be, but the building was too huge and she didn’t have time to stop and figure it out.

  She picked up her pace again, heart beating in increased excitement as she rounded a bend that she recognized. Just ahead of her, up on the rise, Poussin’s tomb gleamed in the moonlight. “Et in Arcadia ego,” Maureen whispered to herself. “Here we are.”

  She looked for the path that she and Peter had discovered a few days earlier, the one that had been obviously concealed. Maureen found it through a mixture of luck and memory and perhaps something more, and climbed to the rise, where the tomb had stood for centuries in staunch and silent testimony to an ancient legacy that had yet to reveal its secrets.

  Now what? Maureen looked around the immediate area, then walked over and stood beside the tomb, thinking and waiting. She felt a brief moment of doubt, hearing Tammy’s voice in her memory again. “Alistair excavated every inch of that land, and Sinclair has used every type of technology imaginable.”

  Not only that, but thousands of treasure seekers had traversed this ground too, over and over again. No one had ever found anything. Why would she be any different? What made her think she had the right to expect more?

  But then she heard it, the voice from her dream. His voice. “Because it is time.”

  A loud rustling in the bushes startled her so much that she jumped, lost her footing, and fell to the ground. Her right hand came down on a sharp rock, and she could feel it slice her palm. She didn’t have the luxury of thinking about the pain; she was too afraid of the sound. What was it? Maureen waited, perfectly still. She couldn’t breathe. Then the rustling sound came again, as two perfect white doves flew out from the bushes and up into the Languedoc night.

  Maureen breathed again. She picked herself up and moved toward the tangle of bushes that concealed a large cluster of boulders fronting the mountain. She pushed around with her hands to see if there was anything behind them. Nothing but sheer rock. She pushed harder on the rock, but there was no movement, no give of any kind. She stopped to rest for a minute, trying to think. Her hand was throbbing where she had cut it; blood streamed down across the palm. As Maureen raised her right hand to evaluate the damage, the moonlight bounced off her ring, glinting on the circular pattern etched in ancient copper.

  The ring. She always took her jewelry off before going to bed, but tonight she was too spent to follow her normal routine and had fallen asleep with it on her finger. The circular star pattern. As above, so below. There was a duplicate of the pattern on the back of the monument.

  Maureen dashed around to the other side of the tomb, pushing aside brush to find the pattern she knew was there. She ran her hand along the pattern, and the blood from her palm stained the inside of the circle. She held her breath and became perfectly still, waiting for what would come.

  Nothing happened. The stillness stretched into minutes until Maureen felt trapped in a vacuum — all of the air had been sucked out of the night. Then, in one shattering moment, a sound penetrated the air. Coming from an unknown distance, perhaps from atop the strange hill that is Rennes-le-Château, a church bell rang out. The deep, droning sound vibrated through Maureen’s body. It was either the most holy sound she had ever experienced, or the most unholy. But the incongruent tolling of the church bell in the dead of night felt monumental.

  The bell shattered the darkness around Maureen, but it was followed a breath later by a sharp and ominous crack. It was a loud and definite sound in the stone immediately behind her, the place from which the doves had flown. The strange lunar spotlight shone on the place now, but it had changed. Where a wall of brush and solid rock had stood, there was now an opening, a split in the side of the mountain, inviting Maureen to enter.

  Maureen inched toward the newly opened cavern. She was shaking now, almost uncontrollably. But she continued forward. As she neared the opening, which was big enough for her to stand in, she saw a faint glow from within. She swallowed her fear at the entrance to the cavern, ducked, and walked into the mountain.

  She caught her breath immediately upon entering, stunned. Sitting inside was an ancient and battered chest. Maureen had seen it in a dream in Paris. The old woman had shown it to her, had beckoned her toward it. She was sure it was the same one. A strange, other-worldly glow surrounded the chest. Maureen kneeled and put her hands on it reverently. There was no lock. As she edged her fingers under the lid to lift it she was so focused on her task that she didn’t hear the footsteps behind her. Then she was aware of nothing other than the blinding pain that shot through the back of her skull right before the world went black.

  Rome

  June 26, 2005

  IF BISHOP MAGNUS O’CONNOR had been expecting a hero’s welcome from the Vatican Council, he was to be sorely disappointed. The faces of the stoic men sitting around the polished antique table were tight-lipped and unflinching. Cardinal DeCaro had turned into his chief inquisitor.

  “Will you explain to the Council, please, why the first man to manifest five points of stigmata since Saint Francis of Assisi was not taken seriously?”

  Bishop O’Connor was sweating profusely now. He clutched a handkerchief in his lap, which he used to wipe the accumulating beads from his face. Clearing his throat, the answer came out a little shakier than he had hoped.

  “Your Grace, Edouard Paschal fell into disturbing trances. He would scream and cry and claim to have visions. It was determined that these were nothing more than the lunatic ravings of a disturbed mind.”

  “And who made these official determinations?”

  “I did, Your Grace. But you have to understand that this man was common, a Cajun from the bayou…”

  DeCaro was unsuccessful in controlling his annoyance. He no longer cared about the Bishop’s explanation. There was too much at stake, and they would have to move very quickly. His questions became increasingly clipped, his tone harsh. “Describe his visions for those who haven’t had the opportunity to read the files.”

  “He had visions of Our Lord with Mary Magdalene, very disturbing visions. He ranted about their…union and spoke of children. These ravings became more intense following…the stigmata.”

  The assembled Council members were growing increasingly unsettled. They shifted in their chairs and whispered as they consulted one another. DeCaro continued the relentless interrogation.

  “And what happened to this man, Edouard Paschal?”

  O’Connor took a deep breath before answering. “He grew so tormented by his delusions, that…he shot himself in the head.”

  “And following his death?”

  “As a suicide, we could not allow him to be buried in sanctified ground. We sealed his records, and forgot about them. Until…until his daughter came to our attention.”

  Cardinal DeCaro nodded, picking up another red folder from the desk. He addressed the rest of the Council. “Ah, yes, that brings us to the issue of his daughter.”

  …Many will find it shocking that I include the Roman woman Claudia Procula, the granddaughter of Augustus Caesar and the fosterling of Emperor Tiberius, among our followers. But it was not her status as a Roman that made her an unexpected member among us. It was that Claudia was the wife of Pontius Pilate, the same procurator who condemned Easa to the cross.

  Of the many who came to our aid in the darkest days, Claudia Procula risked as much or more for Easa than anyone. Indeed, she had much more to lose than many.

  But on that night when our lives crossed in Jerusalem, she and I became bonded in our hearts and in our spirits. We were linked from that day forward, as wives, as mothers, as women. I knew from her eyes that she would become a daughter of The Way when her time had come. I saw it there, the look of light that comes with conversion, wh
en a man or woman sees God clearly for the first time.

  And Claudia had a heart filled with love and forgiveness. That she stayed with Pontius Pilate through all that transpired is a sign of her faithfulness. Until his end, she suffered for him as only a woman who truly loves can do. This is something I know much about.

  Claudia’s story has not yet been told. I will hope to do it justice.

  THE ARQUES GOSPEL OF MARY MAGDALENE,

  THE BOOK OF THE TIME OF DARKNESS

  Chapter Fifteen

  Château des Pommes Bleues

  June 27, 2005

  Maureen’s mouth was bone dry and her head felt like it weighed three tons. Where was she? She tried to turn. Ouch. The pain came from her head, but she was otherwise comfortable. Very comfortable. She was in bed, in the château. But how?

  Fuzzy, nothing was clear. She had a brief thought that she may have been drugged as well as bludgeoned. By whom? Where was Peter?

  Voices outside the door. Raised. Upset and worried. Angry? Men. Trying to identify accents. Occitan, for sure. Roland. The raised one was…Scottish? Irish. That was Peter. She tried to call out to him but emitted only a lame croak. Still, it was enough to attract attention and they ran into the room.

  Peter had never been so relieved in his life as when he heard that noise come from Maureen’s room. He pushed the giant Roland aside and overtook Sinclair to be the first to enter her room. The other two rushed in behind him. Her eyes were open and she looked dazed, but definitely conscious. Her head was wrapped where the doctor had stanched the blood, giving her the look of a war victim.

  “Maureen, thank God. Can you hear me?” Peter grabbed her hand.

  Maureen tried to nod. Bad idea. Her head swam and she lost her vision for a full minute.

  Sinclair moved up behind Peter, leaving Roland to stand silently in the background. “Don’t move if you can help it. The doctor said it’s best if you stay as still as possible.”

  He knelt down beside Peter to get closer to Maureen. His face was etched with misery and concern.

  Maureen blinked hard to indicate she understood. She wanted to speak but found she could not. She managed to whisper, “Water?”

  Sinclair ventured to a crystal dish with a spoon on the nightstand. He made an effort at sounding chipper. “No water yet, doctor’s orders. But you can have ice chips. If you do well with these, we’ll graduate.”

  Together, Sinclair and Peter worked to nurse Maureen. Peter helped to raise her gently while Sinclair spooned the ice chips into her mouth.

  Feeling the rehydration, Maureen attempted to talk again. “What…?”

  “What happened?” Peter offered. He looked at Sinclair and then back at Roland before continuing his explanation. “We’ll tell you when you’ve had a little more rest. Roland here…well, he’s your hero. And mine.”

  Maureen’s eyes moved to Roland, who nodded solemnly at her. She had grown very fond of the big Occitan and was grateful for whatever it was he had done to bring her here. But her first concern was not herself. The answer she needed hadn’t come yet. Sinclair fed her another spoonful of ice chips and she tried again.

  “The…chest?”

  Sinclair smiled for the first time in days. “Is safe. It was brought here with you and has been locked in my study.”

  “What…?”

  “What’s inside? We don’t know yet. We will not open it without you, my dear. It would be wrong. The trunk was given to you, and you must be present when the contents are revealed.”

  Maureen closed her eyes with relief and allowed the warm sleep of sedation to overtake her once again, safe in the knowledge that she had not failed.

  When Maureen stirred for the second time, Tammy was sitting by her bed in one of the red leather armchairs.

  “Good morning, gorgeous,” she said, putting the book she had been reading aside. “Nurse Tammy at your service. What can I get ya? Margarita? Piña colada?”

  Maureen wanted to smile at her but couldn’t yet.

  “Would ya settle for some ice chips? Ah, I see the international thumbs-up sign. Here we go.”

  Tammy collected the crystal dish and moved to Maureen’s side. She spooned some chips into her mouth. “Delicious? I made them fresh this morning.”

  This time Maureen could smile a little. But it still hurt. After a few more spoonfuls she felt she could talk. Better yet, she could think. Her head throbbed, but the haziness was fading, and her memory was coming back.

  “What happened to me?”

  All humor drained from Tammy’s face. She sat next to Maureen again, very serious. “We’re hoping you can tell us the first half. Then we can give you the second. Not now, of course, whenever you’re ready to speak. But the police…”

  “Police?” Maureen croaked.

  “Shh, don’t get excited. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s all okay now. That’s all you need to know.”

  “No, it’s not.” Maureen’s voice was coming back, along with her strength. “I need to know what happened.”

  “Okay.” Tammy nodded. “I’ll get the boys.”

  The four of them filed into Maureen’s room — Sinclair first, followed by Peter, then Roland with Tammy. Sinclair approached her bed and sat in the single chair next to it.

  “Maureen, I cannot tell you how sorry I am. I brought you here and put you in this danger. But I never dreamed anything like this would happen to you. I was sure we could protect you on the château grounds. We hadn’t anticipated that you would venture out alone and in the middle of the night as you did.”

  Tammy moved closer to Maureen. “Remember what I told you? That there were people who would want to stop you from finding the treasure?”

  Maureen nodded, just enough to be seen, not enough to make her head swim. “Who are they?” she whispered.

  Sinclair stepped forward again. “The Guild of the Righteous. A group of fanatics who have operated here in France for centuries. They have a complicated agenda that will be better explained when you are more fully recovered.”

  Maureen started to object. She wanted real answers. Surprisingly, it was Peter who came to Sinclair’s assistance.

  “He’s right, Maureen. You’re still in delicate health, so let’s save the sordid details for when you’re a little stronger.”

  “You were followed,” Sinclair continued. “They’ve been monitoring your movements since you came to France.”

  “But how?”

  Sinclair looked pale and exhausted as he leaned forward to explain. Maureen noted the purple shadows of sleeplessness beneath his eyes as he ran his hands over his face.

  “This is where I failed you, my dear. We were infiltrated. I had no idea, but one of our own was a mole, a traitor, and has been for years.”

  The pain of this failure, and the shame of it, had taken its toll on Bérenger Sinclair. But as miserable as he looked, Roland, standing behind him, appeared positively murderous. Maureen directed her question at him.

  “Who?”

  The big man spat viciously on the floor. “De la Motte.” He dissolved into his native tongue, not French but Occitan. Sinclair picked up where he left off.

  “Jean-Claude,” he explained. “But you don’t have to feel betrayed by your own kin. He isn’t really of Paschal blood. That, like everything else about him, was a lie. Damn the man to hell, I trusted him implicitly or I would have never allowed him near you. When he arrived to pick you up yesterday, he deposited his spy on my property.”

  Maureen was thinking about the charming Jean-Claude, who had been so deferential and kind on their outing. Was it possible that this man had been plotting to harm her all along? It was hard to fathom. There was another thing that didn’t make sense. She attempted a complete question. “How could they know? The timing…”

  Roland, Sinclair, and Tammy looked at one another with more than a little guilt on their faces. Tammy raised a hand in a mock volunteer gesture. “I’ll tell her.”

  She knelt beside Maureen’s
bed, then looked up at Peter to include him in the explanation.

  “It’s part of the prophecy. Remember the strange sundial at Rennes-le-Château? It points to an astrological alignment spoken of in the prophecy, one that occurs roughly every twenty-two years or so, for a total period of about two and a half days.”

  Sinclair continued. “Every twenty-plus years when this alignment happens, local residents keep a constant watch on the area for any indication of unusual activity. It’s what the towers were originally built for — Saunière’s and my own. And it’s where I was last night. In fact, I must have just missed you. I kept the watch in Sinclair’s Folly for several hours before driving up to RLC and watching from there. That’s the tradition in my family.

  “From the Tour Magdala I saw a bright spot growing on the horizon in the area of Arques, and knew I would need to get back to my own land immediately. I rang for Roland on the mobile, but he was already out searching for you. You see, the land around the tomb is monitored by advanced security equipment and there are motion sensors that trigger alarms in Roland’s quarters. Of course, he was watching these most carefully because of the alignment — and because Tammy had been tipped off that our adversaries may have been closer than we thought. Roland went out immediately when an alarm was triggered near the tomb, and arrived seconds after your attack. I wasn’t too far behind him by car. I will say that your attacker…is not feeling as well today as you are. And when he is released from the hospital, he will nurse his broken bones in prison.”

  It was coming together for Maureen as she remembered that the tower had been unlocked and the door open — because Sinclair had just been there.