The Last Scion

by Richard Reed

  David turned round and backed into the hole he had created, lowering himself down inside until he was hanging from edge of the stonework. “Shine the torch down here,” he gasped. “I can’t reach the stairs – I don’t want to break a leg.”

  Rachel did as she was bidden, and David could see that because of the steep angle of descent, the staircase was at least a metre under his feet. Moreover, if he dropped straight down, there was a danger he would fall backwards if he missed his footing. “Saunière must have had a ladder here,” he muttered. “Oh well, here goes.” With that he swung his lower body away from the wall as far as possible before releasing his grip and dropping down at a slight angle onto the staircase. He slithered down a few steps and grazed his knee, but was otherwise unscathed.

  “OK, hand me the torch.” Rachel leaned through the opening, but the torch was out of reach. “You’re going to have to throw it. Just let it drop into my hands.”

  “What if you drop it?”

  “Got a better idea?”

  “Yes,” said Rachel, putting the torch in her teeth before turning round and lowering herself through the entrance. David reached up and held her tightly by the legs before lowering her to the ground. She ended up pressed against him, with his hands around her waist. For a fleeting second she allowed herself to enjoy the feeling of his arms around her. “OK, you can let go now David,” she said abruptly. “Let’s see what’s down here.”

  Rachel led the way down the steep flight of weathered stone steps. “I can’t believe we’re finally in the crypt at Rennes-le-Château – we must be the first people down here since Saunière…” She broke off as she was confronted by a heavily studded oak door barring their way. “Well I guess that’s predictable,” she grumbled. She turned the rusting iron handle ring and pushed hard. Surprisingly, the door slowly squealed opened to reveal another flight of stairs leading downwards. Rachel glanced up at David with raised eyebrows, then turned back and started warily down the steps. There was an accumulation of debris on the stairs, and it would be easy to lose her footing. After a short spiral, she found herself standing on level ground in what was obviously the crypt. She looked around slowly, her torch piercing the murky gloom like a wartime searchlight, her body hunched down due to the barrel-vaulted stone ceiling just inches above her head. Around the periphery of the chamber were a number of small recesses occupied by the tombs of ancient nobles, surmounted by effigies of the knights who had lain undisturbed for centuries. A heavy layer of dust covered everything in sight, and cobwebs hung thickly across the entrances to many of the niches. Again, she felt a strange, brooding presence; something deeply dark and terrible, and she gave an involuntary shudder. This, then, was the crypt that had sparked so much speculation.

  She shook off the pervading sense of foreboding and slowly began to walk forward, shining the torch around both sides of the crypt to get a better look at the tombs. “I presume that’s another way out,” she whispered to David, pointing to another flight of stairs on the opposite side of the crypt. “According to eye witnesses, Saunière was seen several times going into the church, not coming out, then appearing in the graveyard some hours later. Perhaps we can escape that way.”

  “Assuming it does lead into the graveyard, which admittedly is where it’s heading, it must have been blocked up, too – there was no sign of an entrance there,” said David doubtfully.

  “Let’s check it out before we go any further, just in case.”

  They climbed the short spiral staircase to find another oak door, identical to the one they had passed on the other side. Rachel tried turning the handle, but this time it refused to budge.

  “Whether there is an exit there or not, we’re clearly not getting out that way,” she said. “It would take a battering ram to get through that thing.”

  They retraced their steps to the crypt. “If the tomb of Mary is here,” observed Rachel, “it’s clearly not going to be under one of these guys.” She lifted a veil of cobwebs from the nearest tomb and peered down at the inscription on the effigy of the knight in armour that surmounted it. “François d’Hautpoul,” she murmured. “Décédée 15th May 1753. Wasn’t he the husband of Marie de Nègre d’Hautpoul, the noblewoman whose cryptic, mis-spelled tombstone caused all this furore?”

  “I think you’re right.”

  “Why wasn’t she buried down here, too?”

  “Only the male nobility were buried in manorial crypts. Women weren’t considered important enough.”

  “Careful…”

  “Hey, you can’t change history. It’s just the way things were.”

  Rachel sniffed and moved on. “Where is she? She has to be here somewhere, after all the clues we’ve discovered,” she muttered. She shone the torch down to the far end of the crypt. “What’s that up there? It looks like railings of some kind.” Despite the brilliant white light from the LED torch, the dust cast a veil of gloom over the scene. They walked down the crypt until they reached what now appeared to be an archway at the far end. Spanning the arch was a shoulder-height, spear-head railing, of the sort often used to close off side-chapels. Beyond was a large white limestone sarcophagus roughly three feet high. The effigy surmounting the tomb, hands raised in prayer, was that of a woman. And, quite clearly, a pregnant woman.

  Rachel felt giddy for a moment. She took a deep breath and grabbed hold of the railings to steady herself. “I think we’ve finally found her,” she said quietly.

  “Let’s look at the inscription before we make any judgements on that,” said David. He draped his muddy coat over the sharp railings and clambered over. He turned to offer Rachel a hand, but she was already straddling the railings and dropping down lightly beside him.

  “I don’t have any ‘crown jewels’ to guard,” she said lightly, by way of explanation. “You guys are so vulnerable.” She turned to the sarcophagus and started brushing away the dust and cobwebs that festooned it. Eventually she could just make out the capitalised lettering that ran around the edge.

  CI GIT LE CORPS DE MARIE CONNUE COMME LE MADELEINE ~ BÉNI PAR DIEU ~ |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| ~ AGÉE 55 ANS ~ ENTERRÉE ICI LE XVII JANVIER CMLII

  Rachel turned to look at David, an expression of awe on her face. “This really is her,” she breathed.

  Chapter 14

  A shiver ran down Rachel’s spine at the enormity of what they had discovered. She paused, tilting her head to one side as she took in the dimly lit scene. “But why was she buried here in 952? If she was 55 years old, she would have died in 60AD or thereabouts, given the vagaries of the calendar.”

  “I imagine she was originally buried elsewhere and reinterred here some centuries later. It was quite common to move saints and other notable figures to a burial place that was deemed more fitting – often a church was built around them. The dating ties in with the original church built on this site.”

  “I guess…” said Rachel slowly, still staring at the sarcophagus with a mixture of reverence and fascination as David started to take some photos. “Why do you think someone has chiselled out part of the inscription?”

  “Good question. I would guess it’s been removed either because it was considered controversial, or perhaps to protect someone’s identity.”

  “The tomb itself couldn’t have been that controversial – after all, they claimed they found the grave of Mary Magdalene in the Middle Ages at St-Maximin-la-Sainte-Beaume, and it even became a shrine.”

  “Yes, but that was pretty obviously a fake, ‘miraculously’ discovered in 1279 to draw in pilgrims, in much the same way as the monks at Glastonbury in England claimed to have found the tomb of King Arthur.”

  “Maybe it’s something to do with the fact that she is shown as being pregnant? Though at 55, she would have been much too old.”

  “It’s probably just symbolic – perhaps the child had some special significance.”

  “Hey, you’ve got a point. This is Mary Ma
gdalene we’re talking about, after all. What if the child belonged to Jesus?”

  “Oh come on, Rachel,” said David exasperatedly. “Let’s stick to the facts, not go flying off on a wild goose chase. I accept there is a possibility that Mary came to France after Christ’s death, but anything beyond that is just pure speculation. You don’t need me to tell you we are here on a dig for a world-class, factual programme. Let’s leave crackpot theories to the fantasists. Heaven knows there are enough of them out there.”

  Rachel flushed with anger, but bit back her rejoinder and forced herself to focus on the tomb. “And the 17th of January? That’s the date Marie de Blanchefort died, according to her tombstone. It’s also the date Saunière suffered his fatal stroke in La Tour Magdala. Coincidence?”

  David gave her a scathing look. “I’m not even going to answer that one.”

  “You know, whatever you may think about my suggestions, there are plenty of people out there who would have a field-day if this tomb became public knowledge. When the papal legate sees this, he’s going to seal it off for all time.”

  “There you have a point,” he said grudgingly. “If that happens, we’re going to need some hard evidence for TV. The photos will be pretty damning, but photos can be easily faked these days. We need to open the tomb – there may be something inside we can get carbon-dated, assuming Saunière hasn’t beaten us to it.”

  Rachel gave a sharp intake of breath. “Open the tomb of Mary Magdalene? That would be sacrilege!” she gasped. “It’s almost like opening the tomb of Jesus! This sarcophagus contains one of the most important figures in the history of mankind. It’s not a game of Tomb Raider – you of all people should know that.”

  “I’m open to suggestions, but it’s your TV show that’s on the line,” said David tartly. Photos on their own won’t cut it, but if we can get something carbon-dated, it’s a whole new ball-game. I’m certainly not suggesting we disturb her remains, but there may be some sort of artefact in there we can remove. Archaeology is about hard facts. If there were even a slim chance of carrying out a proper analysis of this tomb, it would be different – but you’re right, there’s no way the Church would allow it, given their track record.”

  Rachel wrestled with her conscience. The hard-nosed journalist in her wanted to expose the truth, but there was something else here, something she had never felt before – a deep sense of mystery and awe, coupled with an intense spiritual awareness. Opening the sarcophagus seemed like sacrilege. But David was right – people had a right to know the truth. “Go on then,” she whispered. “May God forgive us.”

  David gave her a startled look before turning his attentions to the sarcophagus. “This lid is going to be heavy. That’s odd, it’s not on straight,” he mused. “Looks as though someone has already tried to move it – Saunière, I guess.”

  He grabbed the sarcophagus lid by one corner and heaved with all his might, but moved it only a fraction of an inch. “I’m going to need a hand,” he said, breathing heavily, but Rachel continued to stare vacantly at the tomb. “Rachel!” he snapped, as she remained rooted to the spot. “Give me a hand, will you?”

  She looked up, dazed. “Sorry – this is all really weird. I just had a flashback to the crash – at least, to an experience I had just afterwards while I was on the operating table.”

  “We don’t have much time. It’s 3am already.”

  Rachel added her weight alongside David and together they slowly managed to slide the heavy stone lid until it was almost half-way across the sarcophagus.

  “That should do it,” said David. “If it comes all the way off it might break, and we will certainly never get it back on again. It makes you wonder whether Saunière did actually open it – I know he was a big guy, but it would have been a struggle single-handed. OK, what have we got here?” A look of dismay shadowed his face as he shone the torch into the black interior. “Nothing, it would seem! Well that’s a let-down – an empty tomb. It seems history is repeating itself – at least, in Biblical terms,” he said, sarcastically.

  Rachel scratched her head. “Why would they have gone to all this trouble to build a church over the tomb and then move the body? It just doesn’t make sense – unless someone was trying to hide the evidence.” Rachel stared thoughtfully at the bottom of the sarcophagus three feet below, trying to make sense of the jumble of debris. “There’s certainly a lot of junk down there. It looks as though the body was removed in a hurry. I think those are some shroud fragments – they could be dated.”

  “But probably only to the tenth century. The body would almost certainly have been rewrapped for burial. We’ll take some anyway, but I don’t hold out much hope…”

  “I know. I wonder if there’s anything else down there?” Rachel peered down inside the tomb again and gently sifted through the debris. She knew they were breaking all the rules of archaeology, but she was determined to find something conclusive. “Ouch!” she exclaimed.

  “Are you OK?”

  “I’ve just cut my finger on something sharp.”

  She reappeared, blood dripping from her hand, clutching several large fragments of white pottery, including a circular base-piece about three inches in diameter. David took them and examined them carefully, turning them over in his hand. “I’m afraid this looks medieval – still, we can date pottery pretty accurately, since even though it’s inorganic, it takes on carbon-14 when it’s made. Anything else down there?”

  Rachel reached down into the tomb once more and continued to sift carefully through the detritus in the coffin until she felt her fingers brush something dry and brittle. “Ah, what’s this? My God, it looks like a parchment scroll – it must have been in that jar. It looks pretty fragile – I’m frightened to move it.”

  “Let me take a look,” said David, squeezing his shoulders through the narrow gap and peering down into the coffin. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s parchment, and it will certainly be fragile. We can’t unroll it without treating it first – it would just crumble.”

  “How are we going to get it back in one piece?”

  “I’ll pop it in my camera case. As long as we’re careful, it should be OK. Pass it over, will you?” Rachel handed them down to him, and putting his screwdriver carefully through the centre of the scroll, David lifted it up and placed it gently into the case. “That was tricky,” he observed, straightening up and massaging his back. “Now all we have to do is get this coffin lid back on and find a way out of here.”

  “Cholet mentions the possible existence of a secret passage leading from the château to the church,” suggested Rachel.

  “With the emphasis on the word ‘possible’,” said David. “He was merely setting the scene. But we’ve got to find a way out of here, and since the only alternative is retracing our steps and owning up to what we’ve been doing, we might as well explore every option. We’re going to have to comb every inch of this place, so let’s get going.”

  For the next hour they methodically examined the walls of the crypt, scrutinising every nook and cranny for a possible exit, but to no avail, and eventually they slumped down wearily on the ground near the staircase they had entered by.

  “I guess the game’s up,” said David bitterly. “We’ll have to go back up to the sacristy, wait until they open up the church, and holler until someone hears us. I’ll leave you to do the explaining.”

  Chapter 15

  They stood despondently staring at Mary’s tomb; their moment of triumph soured by the prospect of imminent defeat.

  “If we cover up the excavations, perhaps we could get away with saying we just wanted to look at the Secret Room and got locked in,” suggested Rachel.

  “Do you really think they would believe that?” sneered David sarcastically.

  Rachel turned away angrily. “Goddamn it, why do you have to be such a self-righteous prick sometimes?” she said, stamping her foot on the ground in temper. She abruptly turned back to David, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. “Did yo
u hear that?”

  “What – you having a tantrum?”

  “No! Listen…” She stamped her foot again.

  “I don’t get it…”

  “It’s hollow, you dummy! God, why are men so dense sometimes? Listen…” She stamped again, harder.

  “You might have something,” said David, finally showing some interest.

  Rachel hunkered down and started brushing away some of the debris on the ground. “Hell – look, I was sitting on it!” she said, grabbing hold of a rusty iron ring set into one of the flagstones. “Come on, give me a hand!”

  Together they grasped the ring and heaved as hard as they could. Slowly but surely they lifted the heavy flagstone from its bed to reveal a flight of stone steps leading into the inky blackness beneath. David looked enquiringly at Rachel. “Do you really want to go down there?”

  “Do we have a choice?” she snapped, betraying the fear slowly creeping up her spine. The palpable sense of menace had dramatically increased; it was as if they had opened a door to the underworld. Abruptly, she grabbed the torch and started gingerly down the stairs. “There’s a tunnel down here,” she said, reaching the bottom. “From the way it’s been hacked out of the rock, it looks pretty ancient. Are you coming down?”

  Rachel didn’t wait for a response, but turning on her heels, marched off down the tunnel. They had only gone a short distance when the passage forked in two. “Now where?” she demanded, not expecting, nor receiving, an answer. After a moment’s hesitation, she took the right fork, but it wasn’t long before the passageway forked again.

  “If we’re not careful we’re going to get lost down here for all eternity,” said David tersely.

  “I’ve got an idea – do you remember your Classical history?”

  “As an archaeologist, I should hope so.”

  “Remember Ariadne’s thread? The princess who gave her lover Theseus a ball of red thread so he could find his way out of the Minotaur’s labyrinth?”