by Richard Reed
“Not the Gospel of Mary, which as you may know was written long after her death, but another gospel – a much earlier text, written by Mary Magdalene herself.”
“Written by Mary?” said David in astonishment.
“Why the surprise – because she was a woman? Remember, she was an educated woman from a wealthy family – far more sophisticated than most of the other disciples. Peter was a simple fisherman, yet scholars are quite happy to accept that he was the source of Mark’s gospel.”
“She was a disciple, then?”
“Not just a disciple, but an apostle. Even the early Catholic Church called her apostola apostolorum – apostle to the apostles.”
“That’s a little ironic, considering their attitude to women in the Church,” said Rachel. “And it’s not just the Catholics – the Church of England is divided over the issue of women bishops. The theological argument that all Jesus’s chief disciples were men just doesn’t hold water.”
“Indeed. I suspect that deep down they really just want to keep the Church as a cosy all-male institution, don’t you think?”
“Forgive me for interrupting your cosy feminist love-in, but I think we should reserve judgement on the authorship of this gospel until it’s been studied by academic experts. And of course, there’s the small matter of finding it first,” said David. “You say Anne-Marie has access to this gospel?”
Hélène hesitated. “Let us say she has information about where it may be found. But she is too old to go with you herself. I’m afraid you will have to rely on your own resources.”
“And Marianne?” asked Rachel. “Is she in a position to help us?”
“I know she would like to, very much,” replied Hélène. “But it is much too dangerous for her to be seen with you. No-one knows who she is. We must guard her secret, at all costs.”
David stood up and moved away from the table as his phone broke into a distorted snatch of heavy rock music. “Excuse me, madame,” he said to Anne-Marie in embarrassment, taking the call. “Yes, this is David Tranter. Hello, Inspector. You have some information about the burglary? Of course we can come back. Thank you. We’ll be at the museum in half an hour.” David turned to Rachel and Hélène. “It’s Inspector Aubuchon from the gendarmerie. It seems he has some important information about the missing parchment.”
Hélène’s hand flew to her mouth. “Mon dieu! He knows about the parchment?”
David coloured. “Only about a parchment. He doesn’t know its real significance. Anyway, it seems he has a lead, and he would like to meet us back at the museum as soon as possible.”
“But I’ve loads more questions I want to ask yet,” protested Rachel.
“Don’t worry, I’m as fascinated by this as you are, but it can wait until tomorrow. Excusez-moi, Hélène – madame,” he added, turning to Anne-Marie. She smiled and nodded her head.
“Goodbye, madame,” said Rachel, moving over to the old woman and, on impulse, giving her a quick hug. As she held her, a feeling of great peace flowed through her. She looked into her eyes and saw an infinity of love and compassion. She gave her a quick kiss on each cheek, and turned away, tears starting in her eyes.
“So, let’s make tracks,” said David quickly, to save her any embarrassment. “Hélène, do you or Angeline want a lift anywhere?”
“Angeline lives here in the village. I will stay with Anne-Marie and talk things through – I’ll phone you tomorrow morning to arrange another meeting.”
Chapter 33
Montségur, February 28, 1244
“You call these terms reasonable?” exploded Corba. “That all Cathars refusing to recant their faith will be burnt at the stake?”
“My dearest, what does it matter if they merely say they recant their beliefs? God will know what is in their hearts, and he will understand what has driven them to this. They can all still partake of the sacrament before they leave the château. The Crusaders are as weary of this siege as we are; it has been a cruel winter. All knights and soldiers will be allowed to leave with their possessions; the common people will be forgiven past crimes – even those who killed the Inquisitors at Avignonet will receive a full pardon.”
“Providing we confess our sins to the Inquisition! And everyone knows what means they use to extract the information they seek.”
“They have given us their word they will not use torture to extract confessions.”
“Do you seriously expect me to believe that? In any event, you know none of the parfaits would consider recanting their faith. They are more concerned with their souls than they are with the fate of this world. Do you wish to see Esclarmonde die in the pyre?”
Raymond winced at the reminder of his elder daughter’s status as a parfaite. “I will talk to her,” he said in an unsteady voice. “She will see reason. Failure to surrender would mean certain death for everyone at Montségur, whether by the sword or through starvation. You know that.”
“Well, my lord, be warned: should Esclarmonde elect to die rather than recant her faith, she will not enter the flames alone. I will be at her side.”
The blood drained from Raymond’s face. “You cannot…”
“I can, and I will.”
“This is not your fight.”
“It is my daughter’s fight, and so it is mine. You cannot blame her for taking up the Cathar cause, given the persecutions of this accursed crusade. And in truth, I am tired of running.”
Raymond bowed his head in defeat, and his body started to tremble; to those watching it was as if he aged 10 years in the space of a few, brief moments. He ran his tongue over his lips nervously. “And Pippa?”
“She was always your favourite, wasn’t she? I have managed to get her to see sense, and she will recant, if necessary, as will Pierre-Roger. She has little Mariette to consider, and she understands the need to protect the Madeleine’s legacy.”
“She may not need to recant,” said Raymond, quietly.
“What do you mean?”
“I told you the grim news about the Bonnet brothers’ expedition, and the threat that may be posed to the gospel. I have been discussing the matter with Pierre-Roger, and we are agreed that we should send another party to recover the relics and find a safer hiding place. If you approve, we will send Pippa and Mariette with them.”
“But how? We have just agreed terms of surrender.”
“We have negotiated a period of two weeks’ grace in which people will have time to examine their souls before deciding whether to recant. The delay will give us time to organise one last escape party. It will also give you the chance to change your mind.” His voice softened. “Give me your word you will think on it, Corba.”
“Not unless Esclarmonde has a change of heart, and that is unlikely. I will talk to her again; I have no wish to see her die; but if she chooses to do so, she will not die alone.”
Chapter 34
Montségur, March 16, 1244
More than 200 Cathar faithful walked slowly down the tortuous path on the west face of Montségur, escorted by the soldiers of King Louis IX. Among their number were foot soldiers, squires, merchants and a baker. Ordinary people, prepared to die for the right to practise their faith. Leading the procession, head held high, wearing a simple white shift, was Corba de Péreille, accompanied by her daughter, Esclarmonde.
They were herded like animals into a wooden pen piled high with pitch-soaked firewood. The Catholic Archbishop of Narbonne lowered his sceptre, and blazing torches were tossed into the enclosure.
The Pope’s men had done their job well. Corba clasped Esclarmonde tightly as the flames eagerly took hold, lapping hungrily at the victims’ scant clothing, searing flesh, sinew and bone; the acrid black smoke scorching their lungs.
Another signal, and a monotonous chanting rose above the screams as the assembled monks and priests sang psalms to drown out the sound of slaughter.
Raymond de Péreille could do nothing but watch and weep as the sickly-sweet smell of burning human fles
h rose on the breeze to the battlements high above. A broken man, he would not see out the year.
Chapter 35
David and Rachel pulled up outside the museum expecting to see a police car waiting for them, but the place looked strangely deserted.
“This is odd,” said David. “The museum looks shut, but this is where the inspector wanted to meet us.”
Rachel started to get out of the car, but her bag snagged on the gearstick, spilling its contents over the floor. “Goddamn it!” she exclaimed angrily, climbing back in to pick up the debris.
David got out and looked around for signs of the police, but there was no-one in sight and he bent down to talk to Rachel through the open door. As he did so a shot rang out, ricocheting off a nearby wall.
“Jesus!” he exclaimed, scrambling back into the car. Executing the fastest three-point turn he had ever made in the huge Range Rover, he drove back down through the village at break-neck pace, scattering a group of children who appeared from nowhere as he rounded a corner.
“For God’s sake, David! You nearly killed those kids!”
“You didn’t hear the shot?”
“Yes, I heard a shot – I assumed it was a local hunter.”
“I was the prey. That shot was meant for me – I felt the wind as the bullet passed my head. If I hadn’t bent down to talk to you, I’d be dead right now.”
“Oh my God!” The blood drained from Rachel’s face. “First me, now you. Someone seriously doesn’t want us to take this any further.”
“You don’t say,” said David sarcastically, flooring the accelerator as he left the winding road to the village and hit open countryside. “You’d better hold on – I’m going to take the dirt track.”
The Range Rover sped down an increasingly narrow lane until the tarmac ended abruptly, and the vehicle jumped and lurched over the unmade road.
“For heaven’s sake, David, slow down or you’ll save them the job of killing us both,” gasped Rachel, clinging on to the roof strap.
David glanced in his mirror, and seeing no sign of pursuit, eased off the accelerator. “Well that was a clever ruse, and we walked right into it,” he muttered, his hands trembling as the adrenalin rush eased off.
“What do we do now?”
“Good question. We certainly can’t go back to the chambre d’hôte – everyone knows where we’re based. I’m going to make for Carcassonne – we’ll blend in with all the English and American tourists. We’ll dump the car, book into the first half-decent hotel we find, and pick up a hire car in the morning. This Range Rover is way too conspicuous with its British plates. Apart from making an easy target to follow, for all we know they could plant a bomb under it overnight.”
David drove hard and fast down the twisty main road towards Carcassonne, but not so manically as to attract attention. Eventually the road straightened and widened as they hit the plain, and soon they were on the outskirts of the ancient medieval town. Heading straight into the centre, they dumped the Range Rover in a municipal car park, put a week’s ticket on it, then cut through a maze of side streets on foot until they found a small, smartly painted family hotel. “The Astoria – good name for a hotel,” he observed. “Not quite the Waldorf, but it will do for us. Let’s hole up here and have a council of war.”
The school holidays had not yet started, but the tourist season was well under way. “I’m afraid we only have one room left, m’sieur. Luckily for you and your wife it is a double,” said the concierge, beaming.
Rachel blushed violently. “Thank you very much – that will do nicely,” quipped David as he gave his credit card details and signed the register, grinning at her obvious embarrassment. “Come on, sweetheart.” As they moved away from the desk, Rachel started to protest, but he grabbed her hand and dragged her up the stairs.
“You have no bags, m’sieur?” called the concierge.
“We’ll get them later, thanks.”
“Let me go,” said Rachel icily, pulling her hand away as they disappeared from sight. “If you think for one minute we’re going to share the same bed, you’ve got another think coming.”
“If you want to sleep on the floor, that’s fine by me. As a card-carrying feminist, I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to try and be chivalrous.”
Rachel gave him an unspeakable glare as he fumbled with the key. “OK,” she said as they went into the room. “We’ll both sleep on the bed. But you’d better make damn sure you stick to your side.”
“Your wish is my command, my lady,” said David.
“And you can wipe that schoolboy smirk off your face, too.”
David burst out laughing, and after a few moments, Rachel joined in. They collapsed on the bed in exhaustion, and within a few moments they were both asleep.
Chapter 36
Languedoc, April 1244
Philippa de Mirepoix crouched low in the sweetly scented sagebrush on the rocky hillside below the Château de Blanchefort, her hand clasped over Mariette’s mouth to prevent her from crying. She had come too far to fail now. She waited, heart in mouth, clutching the precious jar tightly, as the troop of soldiers rode by.
Her journey had been fraught with danger, but ultimately uneventful. Lowered in a basket 300 feet down the cliff at Montségur under cover of darkness, with Matheus Bonnet at her side, she had made good progress to Rennes-le-Château, the two of them posing as husband and wife and staying at remote farmsteads. Little Mariette had provided good cover, with no-one suspecting their story.
Once at Rennes, at the dead of night, Matheus had led her through the network of caves below the town deep into the heart of the hillside, until they finally reached the Visigoth burial chamber. They retrieved the gospel, leaving a Latin copy in its place as a decoy, then at Philippa’s insistence, and despite his continued misgivings, Matheus had led her on to the crypt below the Church of St Mary Magdalene. She wanted to see the tomb of the Blessed Mary with her own eyes, for what would perhaps be the only time in her life.
They had already visited the cave nearby where she had originally been buried – a place known only to her family. It had been a poignant moment. But on seeing the ornate tomb of the pregnant Mary, Philippa collapsed sobbing, overcome with emotion. A year’s brutal siege, through the worst winter imaginable, culminating in the death of her mother and sister. And now this. Confirmation, if she had needed it, of her own link to the bloodline of Mary and the Christ.
She had bade Matheus open the lid a fraction; it was heavy, but it shifted just enough for her to see inside, by the light of the lantern. She knew the body had long since been moved, but she had to see for herself. And, of course, the tomb had been empty. But there, half-hidden in the corner under some torn scraps of funeral shroud, was a small jar.
Squeezing her slim arm through the narrow gap, she gently retrieved the jar, and curiosity getting the better of her, removed the stopper. Inside was a small, tightly bound scroll. Gently prising it from the neck using the pin of her brooch, she gently unrolled it, her eyes opening wide with astonishment as she read the Latin text. Quickly putting the scroll back into the jar, she dropped it into her pocket and they made good their escape.
The small detachment of royal troops disappeared slowly round a bend in the track towards Rennes-les-Bains, and Philippa breathed a sigh of relief. She glanced at Matheus, and they continued forward up the steep flank of the hill towards the château high above. The path twisted and turned tortuously towards the summit, where the Templar watchtower stood guarding the approaches to Mount Cardou.
As they approached the defensive outer perimeter, their way was blocked by two men at arms who stood in their way, their swords crossed between them in a steel arch.
“Who seeks entry?” asked one, sharply.
“My name is Lady Philippa de Lanta, and I wish to see the seigneur,” she said boldly.
The two men glanced at each other briefly, then at the toddler clinging to her waist. A woman visiting the remote Templar outpost was unheard o
f… “My lady, I would that I could be of service to you, but no-one outside the order may enter this building.”
“I thought you offered succour to refugees and pilgrims?”
“Indeed so, good lady, and we will gladly escort you to a place of safety, but…”
Philippa held up her hand to silence them, then stopped to twist a silver ring off her finger. “Will this satisfy you?” she said angrily.
One of the sentries stepped forward to look at the heavy silver band, and at once bowed deeply to her. “My lady, I am yours to command,” he said humbly.
“I repeat, I wish to see the seigneur. In private.”
“Very well, my lady. If you would follow me to the keep, I will bring you some bread and wine while I speak with my lord.”
Barely half an hour later, Philippa was ushered into the chamber where Sir Guillaume de Sonnac, a tall, gaunt man, with short grizzled hair and a battle-scarred face, stood waiting.
He studied the attractive, dark-haired young woman standing before him. Though her clothing was tattered, she had a courtly bearing and an air of authority about her. Her deep, brown eyes showed a depth of mind and spirit beyond her years.
“My lady,” he said, bowing deeply. “It is an honour to make your acquaintance – forgive the humble hospitality I am able to offer you. This is a military fort, and there is little room for luxuries.”
“My lord,” she replied politely, “after 10 months under siege at Montségur, this has one luxury I find very sweet: freedom.”
The knight gave a sharp intake of breath at her statement. “My lady, that is a brave thing to say at this time. Perhaps too brave.”
“We are among friends, are we not?”
“Indeed, my lady, but it would be wise to keep that information between us. The king has spies in every quarter.”
