The Last Scion

by Richard Reed

  “There’s a reason for that: it was a question of bad timing. Yes, Raymond should have helped Trencavel. I thought so at the time, and I still think so. But the reason he held back was that he had other irons in the fire. This past year Raymond has been secretly building an alliance with King Henry III of England. The king’s troops will be landing at Royan within the next fortnight.”

  “Why are the English getting involved?”

  “You should attend to your history lessons more closely,” chided Pierre-Roger.

  “Don’t speak to me as if I’m a child,” said Philippa, scowling.

  Pierre-Roger bit back his tongue. “Sorry. But you should know that England once owned more of France than the King of France himself. Henry is keen to regain his lands in Normandy, Anjou and Aquitaine, and has every reason to help us keep the Languedoc free – a thorn in the French side.”

  “And what does all this have to do with the raid you are planning on Avignonet?”

  Pierre-Roger hesitated, and Philippa’s father gave him a hard look. “I think you should tell her.”

  “Very well, then. The Inquisition has moved out of Toulouse, intent on spreading its terror throughout the land. All suspected Cathars will be taken for questioning by the officers of the Pope, and those that refuse to recant will be burnt at the stake.”

  Philippa blanched. “Does the Church not have enough blood on its hands already? When will this ever end?”

  “I agree. We must put a stop to it – which brings us to Avignonet. I have received a letter from one of our agents, Raymond d’Alfaro, who happens to be bailiff at the château.”

  “The bailiff is one of our agents?” interrupted Philippa.

  “His mother is the illegitimate half-sister of Count Raymond. As I was saying, he has sent word that the Chief Inquisitors of Toulouse, Etienne de Saint-Thibery and Guillaume-Arnaud will be arriving at Avignonet in the next few days, along with their assistants and notaries. It is my intention to lead a small band of men in a surprise assault, and end this infamy once and for all. There is no great danger; the bailiff’s men will let us into the château undetected.”

  “You intend to kill the Inquisitors?”

  “It is the only way to halt this cancer that eats away at our faith. And by timing the attack to coincide with the arrival of English troops to bolster Raymond’s cause, we will together launch an almighty blow for freedom. Freedom from persecution, and freedom from King Louis and his northern lords.”

  “And you accuse me of not knowing our history? Do you not remember what started this accursed crusade 30 years ago – the killing of the Pope’s legate, Pierre de Castelnau, by Count Raymond’s father? Have you so easily forgotten the sacking of Béziers that followed, and the massacre of its people – including my grandmother? Does the name De Montfort mean nothing to you now? You should remember – you’re old enough.”

  Pierre-Roger’s face flushed at her stinging jibe.

  “My fear,” interjected her father diplomatically, “is that not enough English troops are being sent to support Raymond. Henry has problems at home – the Scots are threatening to invade, and De Montfort grows stronger by the month.”

  “De Montfort?” breathed Philippa, wide-eyed with fear. “Surely that devil’s spawn cannot still live!”

  “Indeed not, thanks be to God. It is his son, of the same name; the English Earl of Leicester. He is as different from his father as chalk from cheese. He seeks to curb the king’s supremacy and give more power to the barons – there is even talk of setting up a parliament; a council where ordinary people can make laws themselves.”

  “A noble aim,” said Philippa, surprised. “The seed has fallen far from the tree.”

  “Indeed, but it does not help our cause. I fear these distractions mean but a token force will arrive, and Raymond’s bid to recover his estates will end in disaster. And as you rightly say, Pippa, an attack on the Inquisition will bring swift and fierce retribution. Even Henry, distant though he be from Rome, is still the Pope’s man.”

  “So what do you suggest, father?”

  “I fear there is no option but to wait and see how events unfold.”

  “That sounds like wise counsel, to me,” said Philippa, turning back to her husband. “Forgive my hurtful words, my lord. I meant nothing by it. But surely you can see that this way can only lead to bloody vengeance? They will stop at nothing if we take this course.”

  Pierre-Roger looked at her, grim faced, his lips set straight. “I’m afraid there is nothing more either of you can say to dissuade me. My mind is made up, and I have already given my word to Count Raymond. We need to give our people hope, and warn the Pope that we will not sit idly by while our women and children are sent before the Inquisition. It would be easy for us to sit here in the heights of Montségur, safe from attack, and watch and wait. How would you feel if you were one of our brethren in the towns and villages below, waiting for a knock on the door? No, we must act, and act decisively. This is our chance to change the course of destiny.”

  “As you wish, my lord,” said Philippa stonily. “But if this is your intent, I must insist that you do not lead the attack yourself. You still carry a wound. I will not allow you to risk your life in this way; not while I carry your child.”

  Darkness shadowed Pierre-Roger’s face, and he gave a mock bow of obeisance. “So be it, my lady. I will accompany my men as far Avignonet, but I will not take part in the final assault.”

  Chapter 19

  Languedoc, May 28, 1242

  Moonlight filtered through the dense foliage of Antioch Wood outside Avignonet, glinting off mailcoats and scabbards as the raiders prepared for the final assault. The small band of townsfolk from Gaja-la-Selve, recruited along the way, weighed their hatchets and cudgels in their hands meaningfully, anxious to extract revenge on the murdering churchmen.

  A dark figure wrapped in a cloak appeared silently at the edge of the woods, and made his way quickly to where the knights stood waiting with their mounts.

  “My lords, my name is Guillaume-Raymond Golairan. I come in the name of Raymond d’Alfaro. He wishes you to know that the way is made clear. The Devil’s men are lodged in the keep, and none will stop you. Make it swift and silent, and all will be well.”

  One of the knights stepped forward and grasped the man by his throat. “You can be sure of this?” he demanded.

  “I have put them to bed like my own children. You will find them a-slumber in the chamber to the right of the great hall.”

  “And the guard?”

  “I issued the week’s wine ration this evening. You will find no trouble there.”

  “Then let us waste no time,” said the knight. “And you will not join us, my lord?” he said, turning to where Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix was seated on the ground.

  “It sticks in my craw, Sir Bernard, but I cannot. I have given my word to Raymond de Péreille.”

  “It is wise counsel, my lord. You are still weak from your wound, and Montségur has need of you. For my part, since the Inquisition saw fit to condemn me to death in my absence, I welcome the chance to show the Pope that I am still very much alive.”

  “Then go, and I will be with you in spirit. Bring me an inquisitor’s skull – I would use it for a cup.”

  As promised, the knights met no resistance. Sir Bernard de Saint-Martin led the onslaught, battle-axe aloft. Swords ripped through slumbering bodies, and cudgels crushed shaven skulls until only bloody pulp remained.

  And then they were gone, as quickly and silently as they had arrived.

  Hours passed as Pierre-Roger waited anxiously for the knights to return to the safety of Antioch Wood. He jumped to his feet, wincing with pain, as he saw the small troop of men filter through the shadows.

  “Did it go well?”

  “Indeed it did, my lord,” said Sir Bernard.

  “Why then, where is my cup?”

  “I fear it is broken,” he replied, grinning.

  “You should have broug
ht it, anyway. I would have bound it with a circle of gold and drunk from it all my days.”

  As the knights led their horses up the steep path into Montségur, an excited page boy raced ahead to the tower where Philippa awaited news of the raid.

  “They have killed the Inquisitors,” he told her excitedly. “All is free!”

  “All is dead,” she replied, turning her head away, her face wet with tears.

  Chapter 20

  Father Pietro Agostini of the Society of Jesus hesitated a moment before picking up the phone. He did not like dealing with the ‘other side’ – especially these American evangelicals. They each regarded the other as heretics, but in this case, the alternative was far worse. They both had a vested interest in maintaining the status quo. Now the sacrilege which he and Cardinal Bertolotti had seen at that confounded church left no alternative.

  He lifted the handset and dialled. “Pastor Bob? This is Father Agostini from the Vatican. It’s about our little problem at Rennes-le-Château. I’m afraid it’s considerably worse than we thought. Despite our best efforts to make the excavations as difficult as possible, they have gained access to the crypt. Naturally we insisted on going in first. It confirms our worst fears – the crypt does indeed contain the tomb of Mary Magdalene.”

  “That damned woman…” came back a Texan drawl. “Sometimes I wonder what Our Lord was thinking of…”

  “That’s the least of it,” cut in Father Agostini abruptly. “I’m afraid the effigy quite clearly shows her as being pregnant. The implications…”

  “Yeah, I get the implications. Who else knows?”

  “Cardinal Bertolotti, the official legate sent to investigate by His Holiness.”

  “Can he be trusted?”

  “I think so – for now. He is obviously aware of the damage this could cause.”

  “No-one else?”

  Now it was Agostini’s turn to hesitate. “I’m not sure about the archaeologists. They discovered a door to the crypt. We knew the entrance was there – we tried to keep the dig away from it, but they defied us. Unfortunately, I think they probably did gain access…”

  “Goddamn it, Pietro! You were supposed to stop this happening. Now the whole world is going to know! Can you imagine what this is going to do our faith, Protestant or Catholic? Putting a woman – a whore, at that – at his side as his equal… I mean, have you read her so-called gospel, or what’s left of it? This is going to put the Gnostics right back on the map. Can you imagine what it’s going to open the door to? Our success in the West is built on a God-fearing society. It will undermine the very foundations of civilisation – we’ll end up like some goddamn Buddhist country where no-one wants to work and no-one’s afraid of anything…”

  “Pastor Bob, I don’t mean to cast stones, but if your people had been successful in silencing Miss Spencer a few months ago, this might never have happened. As I said in our previous discussion, she is clearly the brains behind this exercise. I understand from my sources that it was her idea to extend the dig at the last minute. We believe she engineered a clandestine visit to the forbidden Secret Room to pinpoint the entrance. As I said, she is intelligent – and dangerous. She and Tranter, the head archaeologist, must be eliminated before they can do more damage.”

  “My people did a good job in London – it was a fluke she survived. She must be in league with Lucifer himself…”

  “Perhaps. Or maybe she’s tougher than we gave her credit for. This time, we need to get it right.”

  “There’s nothing to stop you from doing that. You Jesuits have a pretty damned ruthless reputation.”

  “Despite what you may see in the movies, Pastor Bob, the Catholic Church cannot go around killing people.”

  “That’s never stopped you in the past. The Inquisition did pretty well in that department…”

  “Nothing will be served by dredging up past history,” said Agostini, trying to control his temper. “As we have agreed, the time has come for us to abandon our differences and cooperate in our mutual self-interest. Your contacts in the CIA are much better placed than we are to end this nonsense. They have the tools and the training. America has as much to gain in suppressing this information as the Vatican.”

  “OK, OK, point taken. I’ll make the calls.”

  “One more thing.”

  “What now?”

  Father Agostini paused. “We have reason to believe the archaeologists have taken something from the tomb.”

  “JE-HOS-A-PHAT! Can’t you people do anything right?”

  “Our sources believe they recovered a scroll…” went on Agostini hurriedly.

  “A scroll? This goes from bad to worse! What does it say?”

  “We don’t know – that’s the whole point,” said Agostini, biting back a sarcastic rejoinder. “It may contain information that would lead to even more damaging revelations. The simplest course of action would be to destroy it, but some of the information may have already leaked out. To prevent unwanted surprises, we need to know what the scroll says. Forewarned is forearmed.”

  “So get your man on the inside to recover it.”

  “It’s not that simple. The parchment is fragile – Tranter is putting it through a restoration process. We must wait until that is complete; then we can strike. Tell your people to watch and wait.”

  Chapter 21

  Rennes-le-Château, August 1792

  Abbé Antoine Bigou stood in front of the dilapidated old church of St Mary Magdalene and contemplated the majestic view. The foothills of the Pyrénées were ranged before him, clad in their pastel greens and mauves and yellows, while beyond, the savage, snow-capped peaks of the Hautes Pyrénées, jutting through the clouds, marked the route he must take to the safety of neighbouring Spain.

  Damn those Revolutionaries – damn them to hell. Where they would surely go, he reassured himself. He had been curé of Rennes-le-Château for 18 years, and he would miss this beautiful place; not just because of the dramatic views, of which he never tired, or the villagers, with their strange, archaic customs and unholy symbols over the doors of their houses. Mistrustful at first, they had taken him into their hearts, and he now regarded himself as one of them. There would be tears when they parted, of that he had no doubt.

  No, the biggest wrench would be leaving the place where the body of the sacred Madeleine had lain, until its removal at some point in history. His discovery of the crypt, the presence of which he had always suspected, under the Knights’ Stone in front of the altar, had led to a moment of spiritual epiphany. The fact that the effigy on her tomb showed her to be obviously pregnant had caused him to rethink his entire religious framework. There could be no doubting who the father had been, and the fact that the Son of God had taken a mortal woman to wife, and had progeny, altered his whole perception of God – at least as far as the role of Jesus, his son, was concerned. The Arians had been right, after all; Jesus was first and foremost a man.

  Granted, the Church also alluded to him as the Son of Man, but Christ was supposed to be the nearest thing to God on earth, while he was alive; God-like, omniscient, infallible. Now that Bigou knew Jesus had also been a husband and a father, it put a different perspective on things. Jesus had married Mary, lain with her, no doubt on many occasions. He had carnal knowledge. If the Son of Man were able to have sex, sinlessly, then many of the things the Catholic Church had proclaimed over the centuries began to look very shaky. In particular, that priests should remain celibate.

  Then there was the other thing… That he would put back where he found it; leave someone else to deal with its legacy. That particular secret would rock the Church to its foundations, he had no doubt. Even those Protestant upstarts wouldn’t escape the ramifications if that got out.

  Meanwhile, in the few weeks left before he must flee, he must instruct a mason to prepare a new gravestone for the former lady of the manor, Marie de Nègre d’Ables, Marquise d’Hautpoul de Blanchefort. It had been 11 years since she had passed away in 1781, lea
ving no male heir, though one of her three daughters, Marie-Anne Elisabeth d’Hautpoul de Rennes, still lived in the château.

  Bigou had heard Marie de Nègre’s confession on her deathbed. She had told him many strange and disturbing things, most of which he had confirmed for himself on opening the crypt, and during subsequent explorations. The crypt, she told him, had been sealed on the express wishes of her husband, François, interred there on his death in 1753, long before Bigou’s arrival. François had never recovered from the death of his infant son, Joseph, at the age of just two – the last male heir to the Hautpoul line. Marie, however, a lovely woman – how could she not be? – seemed to have recovered from this blow, and was focused on the welfare of her daughters, particularly Marie-Anne Elisabeth, with whom she had a special bond.

  Bigou’s discoveries had left him facing a difficult choice. To leave everything for the Revolutionaries to find was simply inconceivable – the avowed atheists would distort everything to their own ends. But should he conceal everything, leave nothing for future generations to find? Or should he leave clues so that a future curé, a man of learning, might uncover the secrets at a time when Christendom might be better placed to receive them?

  He had chosen the latter course, first with a message, discreetly concealed in the side of a wooden pillar under the pulpit, giving simple clues to find the entrance to the crypt. And he had replaced the Knights’ Stone upside down, lest the Revolutionaries get too inquisitive.

  As for the other… That required a work of greater subterfuge; that was not ready to be revealed for many generations. But at some point, people had a right to know. It altered the whole meaning of Christianity. Perhaps now was a good time to see that mason…