by Richard Reed
“I appreciate your advice, my lord. I have been careful – indeed, I must confess to using a little subterfuge with your guards by giving my mother’s maiden name, which is not, I think, well known in these parts. My married name is Lady Philippa de Mirepoix. I am wife to Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix, and daughter of Lady Corba de Péreille, who perished with my sister in the slaughter at Montségur.” A tear welled in her eye, and she brushed it away angrily.
Sir Guillaume moved quickly to her side, and taking her hand, bowed gently before her. “My lady, please accept my deepest condolences. It was the work of the Devil himself. It shames me that our Order has the official blessing of a Church that commits such atrocities in the name of God.”
“Thank you, Sir Guillaume. Your words are most reassuring; I know that during the crusade you did all you could to protect the Cathars. There is a task of the highest importance which I would seek to entrust to your Order. It involves a holy relic which the Church, if it were to discover its true nature, would do all it could to destroy.”
“Why would the Church seek to destroy a holy relic, my lady?”
“Because it would undermine many of its teachings.”
“Can you tell me more?”
“If you promise me that what I tell you will go no further, and that if you should decide not to undertake this mission, you will give me safe passage from this place.”
“On both counts, I will most certainly give you my word.”
“Thank you, Sir Guillaume. You are an honourable man. Firstly, I should explain who I am – or rather, my lineage. I know that our lady Mary Magdalene has a special place in your hearts, as it did with the Cathars.”
“Indeed, my lady.”
“Very well.” Philippa took a deep breath and steeled herself. “Please do not think this a blasphemy; it is, quite simply, the truth. You may well have heard legends of Our Lady fleeing the Holy Land for Gaul after the crucifixion of Our Lord.”
Sir Guillaume showed no reaction to her statement, so she continued. “Those legends are, indeed, true. I am the direct descendant, through my mother’s line, of Mary Magdalene, bride of Christ, apostle to the apostles.”
Sir Guillaume looked at her in astonishment for a moment, then in a swift movement, dropped to his knees before her. “My lady,” he said in a choked voice, “I have long dreamed of this moment. I can now die at peace with my soul.”
Philippa laid her hand on his grizzled head. “Arise, Sir Guillaume, and be at peace. Let us not talk of death; there has been a surfeit of that lately.”
“Indeed, of course – I am sorry…”
She put a finger to his lips. “No more apologies,” she said smiling. “You have nothing to apologise for. You have given us much help in the centuries since the Madeleine arrived on these shores. All I ask is that you take the sacred gospel which she brought with her from Palestine and hide it in the most secret place you know.”
“It would be the greatest of honours, my lady.”
“It is rumoured that you brought back sacred relics from the Crusades to the Holy Land, and that they are hidden close by – perhaps with the body of Our Lady, which I think you may know something about. Would that be a suitable hiding place?”
“You are well informed,” said Sir Guillaume, with a wry smile. “Do you know the nature of those sacred relics?”
“I have an idea, but I wish to hear no more. Should the Inquisition find me, the least I know, the better.”
“Let us pray that never comes to pass.”
“Indeed.”
“My lady, may I ask where you intend to travel next? I fear for your safety, travelling alone with your baby, and just a manservant for protection – I must insist that you allow me to provide you with an escort.”
“I appreciate the gesture, Sir Guillaume, but we will be safer travelling incognito, as man and wife. I have decided to travel to Piedmont, in northern Italy, where many Cathars and other so-called heretics have fled to avoid persecution.”
“They may be further from Rome in doctrine but they are closer to Rome by geography.”
“Perhaps, but that is a risk we must take – we cannot stay here in France. We will maintain a disguise, and not divulge our heritage. And of course, we have the ring,” she said, smiling.
She reached into her purse and withdrew a cylindrical container. “Please, take this, and guard it well.”
“With my life, my lady.”
“And now I must ask one more small thing. Do you have a pen and ink?”
“Why of course,” said Sir Guillaume, gesturing to the desk and retrieving a quill from the drawer.
“Thank you. There is one last thing I must do before I go.”
* * * * *
“Have you completely lost your reason, Lady Philippa?” protested Matheus furiously. “It would be madness to risk everything and return to Rennes. Have we not just removed the gospel from there to a place of safety?”
“Indeed, Matheus. But we know not where the Templars will hide it, nor do I wish to know. We must leave a clue so that those seeking the truth in years to come will know where to look.”
“Ay, and so will the Inquisitors!”
“No, I have made the wording opaque, so that only the right person will be guided to discover the truth. Even then, it will not lead them directly, but merely to a place where someone can watch and wait at the appointed hour.”
“The plan still grieves me – the prophecy of Our Lady is sacred…”
“I know, but there are other copies. I will go on my own, Matheus, if you will not come with me…”
“You will go nowhere on your own, my lady! I think not for my safety, but yours – and Mariette’s. Your mother warned me…” He broke off, scowling, as Philippa threw back her head and laughed.
“She was right, too, Matheus – you should have listened! Oh, how I miss her…” She shook her head to clear the darkness that threatened to engulf her once more. “Well, you have made a fair point. As a precaution, we will leave Mariette at the farm where we lodged before. Now, are you with me?”
“You have no need to ask that, my lady.”
Once more under cover of darkness they made their way back through the undercroft to the crypt at Rennes-le-Château. Philippa paused and prayed for a moment before the tomb, then took the jar from her pocket.
They froze in terror as the sound of voices broke the oppressive silence. Footsteps rang out on the cold stone steps leading down into the crypt from the church above.
Feverishly, Philippa pushed the jar through the narrow opening of the tomb, biting her lip in dismay as she heard it break. She gestured urgently to Matheus, who threw himself bodily against the lid and shoved it shut. Dousing the lantern, they fled down the corridor whence they had come.
Chapter 37
David reached into his pocket and answered his phone for the third time in the past hour. Why couldn’t the team function without him? The official line he had given was that they were following up a lead in the Inquisition records in Toulouse, but he half-suspected they thought he and Rachel were having a secret fling. He looked across fondly to where Rachel was lying asleep, the sheet barely covering her naked breasts, her tousled hair spilling over her face. It wasn’t how they had planned it, but the guys weren’t far wrong.
“Hello,” he said shortly.
“Is that David Tranter?” came a woman’s voice. “The archaeologist working at Rennes-le-Château?”
“Yes – who is it, please?”
“My name is Marianne. We’ve never met, but you know my mother, Anne-Marie de Blanchefort.” The speaker sounded distressed.
David gave a start. “The lady who lives in Camps-sur-Agly?”
“Exactement.”
“How can I help you, mam’selle?”
“Please, call me Marianne. I was hoping we could meet – something terrible has happened, and there are things that must be explained to you. And, to be candid, Monsieur Tranter, I need your help.”
There was a pause at the other end of the line. “Marianne?” prompted David.
“It is as I feared,” the woman replied, her voice thick with emotion. “This is dangerous, very dangerous – for all of us. My mother, whom you saw yesterday, has been found dead at her home. Officially she had an embolism. Unofficially…” her voice trailed off as her emotions overcame her. “Unofficially, they killed her. Just as they have killed everyone they see as a threat, for century upon century.”
David stood rigidly in shock, the phone clamped to his head.
“Monsieur? Are you there?”
“Yes, mam’selle. I’m so very sorry to hear about your mother’s death – it’s a terrible shock. She was a wonderful lady. But what makes you think she was killed? I find it hard to believe.”
“How can you not believe it, monsieur, after what happened to your girlfriend? And I think maybe there is something else you are not telling me…”
“Actually she’s not my girlfriend, we’re work colleagues. Look, I’m very sorry for your loss, but as I say, we’ve got one hell of a mess to sort out and I don’t see how we can meet at the moment. If I can perhaps get back to you in a few days…”
David jumped back startled as Rachel, woken by the phone, leapt at him from the bed and prised the phone from his fingers. She had seen the shock on David’s face as he took in the news, and disbelief flooded through her at his dismissive response.
“Marianne? This is Rachel Spencer. I work for National Geographic. I’m devastated to hear of your mother’s death. Of course we can help. Your mother was an amazing woman – I can’t believe she’s gone…” Rachel paused, fighting back the tears. “Are you coming down from Paris to sort things out?” she asked finally, in a choked voice.
“I so much want to come, to see maman one last time, but it is far too dangerous. I will be the next victim, of that you may be sure. And with me will die the Magdalenic line… I have no children of my own.”
“What will you do?
“I have some friends who will hide me until it is safe; I cannot say where. Rachel, I need your help, not for myself but for the message I carry. I must go now; I will call back later.”
“Of course – look take my number and call me next time; David is a little preoccupied right now, but we really want to help.”
She gave the number, and the line clicked dead. Rachel slowly lowered the phone, looking at the instrument in disbelief as if it somehow had the power to warp the truth. She limply put the phone in David’s proffered hand, still fighting back the tears. As she put her hands up to her face, David tried to put his arm around her shoulder, but she shook it away.
“Don’t you dare!” she spat angrily.
“After what happened yesterday, I wasn’t sure how much to trust her. I was only trying to be practical…”
“Practical? An old woman has been killed – a woman who may have a direct bearing on our research here, not to mention attacks on both our lives – and you want to be ‘practical’? You’re no Indiana Jones, are you? You’ve certainly nailed your colours to the mast. Or should I say bedpost – I note I’m not your girlfriend. So what the hell was last night about,” she said savagely, gesturing to the rumpled bed. “A one-night stand for Mr Commitment Phobic?”
“So that’s what this is all about…”
“No, it’s not what this all about, you self-righteous prig. After yesterday I thought that maybe, just maybe, there was some spark of decency there – a real man willing to put himself out on a limb and take risks for people if the need arose.” She snorted in disgust. “You’ll sure as hell never be my knight in shining armour. From now on our relationship will be on a purely professional footing.”
Rachel stormed into the bathroom, fighting back the tears. She had allowed David to ‘get’ to her, emotionally; not any more. It made her too vulnerable. She couldn’t afford that.
The next 24 hours seemed to drag. The tension in the air between herself and David was palpable. She knew David had good reason to be guarded when receiving the call, but the emphatic way he had declared ‘she’s not my girlfriend’ stung. There was no going back now, however. They were in it together, for better or worse. She couldn’t just walk out and fly back to the States – she had a contract to complete, and both their lives were at risk. They had started out on this road together, and one way or another, together they would reach journey’s end.
It was late afternoon when David received another call which lasted just a few minutes.
“I take it that was Marianne?” asked Rachel when he was off the phone.
“Yes.”
“Thank God – I’ve been worrying myself silly that something might happen to her. When are we going to meet?”
“Tomorrow morning at ten. We don’t know where, yet. She is going to call us at the last minute, for obvious reasons.”
“You believe her then?”
“That her life is in danger? Yes, after what happened to us, and the death of her mother, which in the circumstances I accept is highly suspicious. I’m still not signing up to the idea about the Magdalenic lineage, not until we’ve got some more substantial evidence. But clearly someone wants to put a stop to this whole thing.” He hesitated before plunging on. “Look, I’m sorry about what I said. I didn’t mean to sound dismissive – I thought it would be best to keep it to ourselves for the time being, to avoid complications.”
“Complications!” snapped Rachel, a surge of rage boiling up inside her. How could he be so dismissive? Sex was just something that happened, for men… No feelings, no emotions, just rampant hormones. It reinforced all her prejudices – all the hatred she had fostered over the years. Baggage she thought she had got rid of, but here it was, back with a vengeance. And it proved her right. Men and women were irreconcilably different.
Chapter 38
Pastor Bob smiled smugly as he sat in his state-of-the-art recording studio, watching the completed video of his next TV broadcast. It was not without reason that he was one of America’s most successful – not to mention wealthiest – televangelists. America was the most God-fearing Western country in the world, and he had those folk right where he wanted them –in the palm of his hand.
It was hard not to make money when more than 90 per cent of Americans believed in God, 75 per cent believed in hell, and more than half the country believed in the Rapture – that Jesus would take them up into heaven before the end of the world. Which was coming soon, of that he was damned sure. At least, that’s what he told the faithful. There was nothing like the fear of everlasting hellfire and damnation to prompt people into putting their hands in their pockets.
Only in America, he thought wryly to himself, could you turn religion into a business. And what a business! Telling folk that God was happy for them to get stinking rich was a surefire money-earner. Give and you will receive, the Scriptures said. And the more you give, the more you’ll get back. What better way to part them from their hard-earned greenbacks. Hell, save that namby-pamby spiritual stuff for the hippies. This was about enjoying the here and now. All you had to do was believe – and give. Generously. And preferably to Pastor Bob.
The recording continued, Pastor Bob’s voice building to a powerful, hypnotic crescendo: “And so I say to you now, give generously to my ministry of salvation, give to bring the Word of the Lord to those whom it has passed by, give to bring yourself untold wealth and happiness. God wants you to be rich. The Lord tells us, in Proverbs 15, verse 6: ‘In the house of the righteous there is much treasure.’
“Prosperity comes when we start to bel
ieve in God’s law of abundance. God cares about you. He cares about your bills. He cares about getting your kids through college. He will bring you money – more money than you know what to do with. Haven’t you always wanted that Jag-yoo-ar? You can have it! Haven’t you always wanted that nice ranch-house with a white picket fence? You can have it!
“Don’t listen to those whining liberals who tell you it’s better to be poor! They sure ain’t poor – they’re hypocrites, every last one of them. You go ask someone who’s homeless if it’s good to be poor! You go ask them if they want to be rich! Remember, nowhere in the Bible does it say God wants you to be poor. All you have to do is believe and give, and for everything you give you will get back 100-fold.”
The triumphal credits began to roll and Pastor Bob heaved his bulk out of his electrically-controlled leather armchair and padded across the room to the huge glass doors that gave him a magnificent view across his 100-acre estate. A man needed to be comfortable to come up with new ways of saving those lost sheep out there, though he sure as hell didn’t want them to come too close – an electrified fence made sure of that. Who knows what psycho might try to take a pot-shot at him. And then there were those goddamn reporters, always trying to sneak in and ask awkward questions about how he spent his money. As if there were something wrong in having a private jet. Darn it, if a corporate CEO could have one, why shouldn’t Jesus’s right-hand man enjoy the privilege? How could he meet and greet the faithful without it?
Pastor Bob crossed through to the study, the nerve-centre of his business, where he controlled the investments made with his $100m gross annual earnings. This morning he had another matter to deal with, however. Something that had been eating away at his sense of wellbeing. And a matter of growing concern, following another phone call from that mincing little Italian papist. Still, sometimes you had to sup with the Devil, and while he may condemn them from his TV pulpit, on this matter they had common ground.
