The Last Scion

by Richard Reed

  “We work for no-one, except the love of Jesus Christ and la Madeleine,” said Hélène indignantly. “For those few of us who know, it is our duty to protect la Madeleine.”

  “From whom – the Vatican?”

  “Among others – they are not the only ones seeking to kill the bearer of Christ’s true message.”

  “You keep calling her ‘la Madeleine’. Isn’t that the name given to the original Mary Magdalene?”

  “Every direct descendant of Marie de la Madeleine is known simply as ‘la Madeleine’,” said Hélène.

  “All of them?” queried Rachel.

  “There is only one in each generation. Each Madeleine chooses one of her daughters to be her successor – usually the eldest, but there have been exceptions. When the mother dies, her daughter becomes la Madeleine.”

  “Going only through the female side makes for a precarious bloodline,” said David.

  “Indeed. But la Madeleine enjoys God’s protection – with our help,” she added pointedly.

  “Are you related to her?”

  “By marriage, through the family of la Madeleine’s husband. He passed away two years ago. So now, enough questions. What is in the scroll?”

  “We would like to meet la Madeleine,” said Rachel cautiously. She didn’t want to antagonise the mercurial Hélène any further, but she wasn’t about to give up that information lightly. “We give you our word that if she doesn’t want us to mention her existence, we won’t. All we seek is further proof that Jesus and Mary were married, and had a child. As you know, the Vatican has banned us from entering the crypt – officially!” She smiled at Hélène, trying to lighten the moment.

  Hélène turned once more to Angeline and spoke again for a few minutes in Occitan, before turning back to Rachel.

  “Very well, it is agreed. We will take you to see la Madeleine, but you must bring a translation of the scroll. Just the two of you – no-one else, especially not Dubois. Do not even discuss this with him – ever. And no cameras, no hidden microphones or tape recorders.”

  “You’ve got a deal,” said Rachel. “But we go today.”

  Chapter 31

  Montségur, February 27, 1244

  Snow had given way to cold, hard, driving rain, and the raw wind still carried enough force to cut through sodden clothing and chill to the bone. Matheus Bonnet stole past the weary enemy sentries and arrived back at the postern gate of Montségur to give the pre-arranged signal. The gate opened quickly, and the exhausted Bonnet was dragged inside and half-carried to the keep. He stood swaying, cold and bedraggled, in front of a furious Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix.

  “You say the mission was successful, yet you fear for the safety of the relics? What kind of nonsense is this, man? Did you hide them in the burial chamber, as discussed?”

  “Yes, my lord,” he muttered. “But my brother was captured shortly afterwards. I barely escaped with my life. There are informers everywhere. Many believe we have great treasure hoarded here at Montségur, and rich rewards are being offered for information that leads to its seizure. I fear they may torture him.”

  “But that is absurd! They must know that we Cathars abhor the pleasures of the flesh.”

  “The Pope’s men do not believe that. Their own priests and bishops are so wealthy and corrupt they cannot accept that we have different values. They do not understand our faith.”

  “They do not want to understand,” said Pierre-Roger, moodily. He looked Bonnet up and down, taking in his emaciated appearance and torn, wet clothes. “Oh sit down, man – here, in front of the fire. And have a pitcher of mulled wine. I need time to think.”

  At dawn’s first light, the plaintive sound of a trumpet rang out from the ramparts of Montségur. Raymond de Péreille’s standard, which had flown so bravely over the château throughout the siege, was reverently lowered to half-mast.

  Raymond, together with Roger-Pierre de Mirepoix, stood exposed on the battlements and shouted to the Crusaders that they wished to parley.

  The huge main gates of the château slowly creaked open for the first time in a year, and two heralds emerged bearing the white flag of truce.

  Chapter 32

  The journey took the best part of an hour, passing through some of the most spectacular countryside Rachel had seen on her trips to the Languedoc. The road twisted and turned its way through gaunt limestone hills and winding river valleys, occasionally passing through dense tracts of forest before re-emerging amongst mountain pastures.

  At one point the road made a tortuous diversion around a brooding mountain peak, which Hélène informed them was called Le Pech de Bugarach. “Some people say that Bugarach inspired Steven Spielberg to make the movie Close Encounters of The Third Kind,” she told them, a smile playing on her lips.

  “You’re kidding!” said Rachel, half in disbelief.

  “That’s what they claim. Apparently the shape of the mountain inspired him to re-create something similar in the film. And then in 2012, thousands of people climbed to the top of Bugarach because they believe the world was about to end, and that UFOs would rescue them when the planet perished.”

  “Some people will believe anything,” muttered David sarcastically.

  Eventually a small village came into view, perched on top of a hill rising from the valley floor, its ancient, yellowing stones soaking up the bright, spring sunlight. The jagged remains of a château rose up from one side of the hill like the stump of a decaying tooth.

  “So this is Camps-sur-Agly,” said Rachel. “It looks like a miniature version of Rennes-le-Château.”

  “It has a similar history, too. During the Albigensian Crusade, several leading faydits – Cathar nobles dispossessed of their land – were given shelter here, and it was used as a base by one of the leading Cathar rebels – I suppose today they would be called freedom fighters. Curiously, his name was Béranger, too, though the spelling was slightly different; Béranger de Cucunhan, though I think his calling was rather more noble than Monsieur Saunière’s.”

  They drove into the village and parked outside the church. “There aren’t more than 60 people living in the village today,” said Hélène sadly, as they walked down the quaint little street. “Most of the houses here are now just holiday homes.”

  They came to an ancient Romanesque church, and Hélène paused, turning to Rachel. “Would you like to have a quick look inside? I think you might find it enlightening.”

  The door was stiff and heavy, but opened slowly to reveal an almost pitch black interior. The only light came from a stunning circular stained-glass window high up in the curved back wall of the apse. They walked in, leaving the door open behind them to admit some light to the stygian gloom.

  The window was a breathtaking kaleidoscope of colour; deep, rich blues and reds interspersed with luminous yellows and azures. Around the circumference ran a ring of fleur-de-lys in a geometric pattern, while a concentric band inside contained symbols of what appeared to be a flowering plant with a blob of red at its roots. At the centre of the whole window was an image of the head and shoulders of a woman in blue, surmounted by a brilliant gold halo.

  “That window is just astonishing,” breathed Rachel.

  “It is magnificent,” agreed Hélène. “13th century, we think.”

  “That’s around the time of the Cathars… But they didn’t have churches as such, did they?”

  “No, but some of their beliefs crossed over into the architecture of local Catholic churches, much as many old English churches contain pagan motifs, such as the Green Man.”

  “Is that the Virgin Mary in the window?” queried David.

  “Officially,” said Hélène.

  “But that white shape in front of her chest doesn’t look like a baby – it’s too small. It’s more like a hand,” said Rachel.

  “Ambiguous, isn’t it?”

  “But why would they portray Mary without the baby Jesus?”

  “Perhaps it is not the Virgin you are looking at,” sai
d Hélène.

  “The Magdalene?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Do those plants have any particular significance?” asked David.

  “There are various legends in Europe about plants springing up where the Saviour’s blood has fallen. It is also thought to symbolise rebirth. Of course, there may be another explanation.”

  “Such as?”

  “A holy bloodline,” said Hélène.

  David snorted.

  “And there’s the fleur-de-lys, again,” said Rachel.

  “Oh come on…”

  “You may scoff, David, but you should reserve judgement until you have met Anne-Marie,” said Hélène, sharply.

  “Why are you always so goddamn sceptical?” said Rachel exasperatedly.

  “It’s my job. Someone has to sort the wheat from the chaff, otherwise you wouldn’t know what to believe. Look at Rennes-le-Château – some people actually believe the place is linked to alien visitations!”

  “Point taken. But as Hélène says, just try to keep an open mind on this one – at least until we’ve met Anne-Marie.”

  They went back out of the church, squinting as their eyes tried to adjust to the bright sunlight outside, and followed Hélène down the winding village street, past more ancient yellow-stoned houses – the over-renovated gîtes with their unsympathetic plastic windows outnumbering the more careworn homes still belonging to local inhabitants. They turned off up another side lane which wound its way towards the outskirts of the village, and stopped in front of a tumbledown cottage that had clearly seen better days.

  Angeline pushed aside the gate, hanging awkwardly on rusty hinges, and ran up to the door, disappearing inside. There was a long delay, then eventually the door opened again, and the smiling face of an elderly woman could be seen, hugging the slim figure of Angeline. She beckoned them to follow, and disappeared inside once more.

  As they stooped under the low stone lintel and went inside, it was like stepping back in time – ancient flagstone floors, lime plaster crumbling from the walls, a stone sink with a solitary cold tap above it. A black cast-iron range cooker occupied most of one wall of the tiny room, and through the partially open fire door, Rachel could see brightly-glowing coals. Despite – or perhaps because of – its age and timeless appearance, the cottage felt homely and welcoming.

  The old woman looked at Rachel and smiled, nodding her head shyly. “Allow me to introduce you,” said Hélène. “This is Madame Anne-Marie de Blanchefort. The direct descendant of Mary Magdalene.”

  The two of them shook the old lady’s hand, and then stepped back, not sure what to say next. What could you say, thought Rachel? They were supposedly in the presence of religious royalty, yet it felt very ordinary – if slightly surreal. She looked again at the tiny woman, half-hoping to sense some spiritual presence, but all she could see was the careworn face of an elderly French woman, albeit with a twinkle in her eyes, dressed in the traditional black garb once so typical of southern France.

  Anne-Marie ushered them to the scrubbed pine kitchen table, and they sat down. She murmured a few words to Hélène, who asked if they would like some soup.

  “Oui, merci, madame,” said Rachel politely, addressing her directly. The old lady made her way over to the range where a large pot was gently simmering and ladled out two large bowlfuls which she placed in front of Rachel and David.

  “Do eat up,” said Hélène. “I’m afraid she doesn’t speak much English, and her French is more Occitan than anything else. Let me talk to her while you’re eating, and I will try to find the answers to some of the questions I know you’re itching to ask.”

  “Wow, this is good,” said Rachel as she tucked into the steaming bowl of soup, while Hélène and Anne-Marie talked quietly. “What do you think it is?”

  “It’s fantastic,” agreed David. “Tastes like rabbit to me.”

  Rachel gave him a filthy look and stared at the bowl in distaste. She leaned forward to whisper. “Putting aside that you’re an ass, did you pick up on the name when Hélène introduced her?”

  “De Blanchefort? I could hardly fail to given that the riddle on that gravestone is one of the most famous parts of the whole Rennes mystery.”

  “Do you think there’s a connection – or is Hélène trying to lead us a merry dance?”

  “There are probably distant relatives of the original de Blancheforts still living around these parts, so it’s plausible,” said David thoughtfully. “On the other hand, if, as you suggest, Hélène were trying to misdirect us, it would be a clever way of doing it. I think the jury’s out on that one until we get some more evidence. I have to say, though, she doesn’t look much like the descendant of Christ,” he added, through a mouthful of food.

  “Actually, I’m inclined to agree,” said Rachel, dipping absent-mindedly into her stew again. “But then again, what were we supposed to expect? A flash of lightning and some kind of divine revelation? I don’t know… I’m beginning to see your point. How can we ever know, for certain? And even if we could somehow be sure, how could we convince viewers? Hélène’s made it clear we can’t do anything that might identify her.”

  “Well I’m not expecting much, but we’ve come this far, so let’s hear what she’s got to say,” said David. “If nothing else, she’s a lovely old girl, and she makes a mean rabbit stew. I can think of worse ways to spend the evening. I just love this cottage – it’s so rustic and unspoilt.”

  “You’d probably live in a ruined castle if you had the chance,” laughed Rachel.

  “Too right!”

  They finished their food and Hélène turned back to them. The old lady shuffled over and sat down at the table opposite Rachel. Rachel looked up into her eyes, beyond the warm, kindly smile, and a sudden frisson ran through her body. There was a light in those eyes she hadn’t noticed before; an ancient, ineffable light that seemed to come from far beyond her own soul; that drew her in and bathed her in its golden warmth. Her anxieties seemed to evaporate like summer mist. She was floating again, in time and space, just as she had done after the accident. A face was solidifying before her; the face of a different woman…

  “Rachel?”

  She jumped, startled out of her reverie. “Oh, sorry, Hélène. I was miles away.”

  “That’s quite all right. She often has that effect on people!” She smiled enigmatically. “It seems Anne-Marie has heard of your excavations at Rennes, so she was not completely surprised to see us here. Please forgive what happened at the cave – you must understand that we are sworn to protect Anne-Marie and her granddaughter.”

  “Granddaughter?”

  “Oui – Marianne. She lives and works in Paris.”

  “And her daughter?”

  “I’m afraid she died in a car accident when Marianne was quite young. As a result, the child was taken to a place of safety.”

  “An accident?” said Rachel, sceptically, glancing at David.

  “I share your doubts,” said Hélène gravely. “Anne-Marie and her forebears have been forced to live their lives in secret, because of threats from the Church. During the last century, between the two world wars, there was so much upheaval that everything was quiet. But after the last war, when people started to take an interest in Rennes once more, the Vatican sent a legate to investigate the rumours. It was to protect Anne-Marie’s safety that there has been so much – how do you call it, disinformation? about Rennes. The fake parchments were part of an attempt to put the Vatican off the trail by spreading wild and exotic rumours. A little like you Americans with the UFOs at Roswell,” she added mischievously.

  “The parchments were definitely fakes, then?”

  “Yes, the parchments allegedly found by Saunière in the pillar of the old altar at Rennes – Les Dossier Secrets, as they became known – are certainly not genuine. Firstly, that rumour only emerged in the 1960s, and secondly, on a practical note, the parchments would not even have fitted in the pillar! The column is on display in the muse
um, and you can clearly see there is only a very small cavity in the top.

  “Philippe de Chérisey, the author of the fakes, had been introduced to Anne-Marie by Noël Corbu, who, if you remember, bought Saunière’s estate from Marie Dénarnaud. The complex codes he used in the parchments were all part of an elaborate ruse to confuse people – he even managed to place the documents in the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris. The parchments were mentioned in a book about Saunière soon afterwards as if they were fact, and since then treasure hunters all over the world have been poring over them, trying to decipher clues to the gold they believe is hidden somewhere in Rennes. De Chérisey later admitted the parchments were fakes, to add to the confusion.

  “It all worked rather well – until, of course, the authors of Holy Blood, Holy Grail came up with the idea of a holy bloodline, and de Chérisey’s friend Pierre Plantard, a vain self-publicist, saw the chance to draw attention to himself by backing the claim. It was he who invented the Priory of Sion, a secret society with grandiose claims of guarding a holy bloodline, whose membership, he claimed, had included the likes of Isaac Newton and Leonardo Da Vinci. Then, of course, the Vatican took a renewed interest.”

  “Does the Vatican know about Anne-Marie and her granddaughter?” asked David.

  “Not as far as we know. But they know that Rennes-le-Château holds a vital clue. And as I have said, I believe they will stop at nothing to prevent the truth being known.”

  “What proof is there that Anne-Marie really is a descendant of Mary Magdalene?”

  Rachel glared at him.

  “It is a fair question,” said Hélène. “She has information that will lead you to the truth. Only she and Marianne know this.”

  A shiver ran down Rachel’s spine. “What is it, this truth?”

  “It is Mary’s account of her time with the Lord.”

  “A lost gospel?”

  “If you like.”

  “Is it the complete version of the Gospel of Mary, the gnostic text?” asked David keenly.