The Last Scion

by Richard Reed

  David and Rachel were silent. They had, of course, while working in the region, heard of the siege of Montségur, but the atrocity still had the power to chill the blood.

  “However, the escape by the Madeleine’s daughter was not the end of it. She fled in disguise to Rennes-le-Château, a sacred place to the Cathars – for reasons you now understand. Although the town had fallen to the crusaders some years earlier, it had become a focus for Cathar sympathisers, many of whom took refuge there. We believe – we hope – the gospel was hidden somewhere in the crypt or undercroft.”

  “That God-forsaken place.” muttered Rachel, blushing violently as she realised her admission.

  Marianne gave a knowing smile. “You thought, perhaps, we did not know of your little expedition?” she said, amused.

  “Well, I knew you had found out about our discovery of the crypt, obviously, but not the other… it was the only way out – we were trapped. But how do you know the gospel wasn’t hidden in Mary’s tomb, and moved at the same time as her body?”

  “It’s possible,” admitted Marianne. “We can’t be sure of the timeframes. But we’re pretty sure the remains were removed at the start of the crusade, and that the treasure smuggled out in 1244 was, indeed, the gospel. The undercroft would have been the obvious place to hide it – particularly, it seems, since it had a reputation as a place of great evil. God-fearing Catholics would not dare go in there.”

  Rachel gave an involuntary shudder. “I hated that place – there was a profoundly evil presence there. Even David felt something, didn’t you?” she said, turning to him.

  “I have to admit it wasn’t very pleasant down there, though as an atheist I don’t acknowledge the word ‘evil’.”

  Rachel glared at him. “There was just this overwhelming sense of darkness; of a hideous power,” she added.

  “I expect it was finding all those Visigoth tombs that did it,” said David. “And I probably didn’t help mentioning that they practised human sacrifices.”

  Marianne blanched. “Human sacrifices?”

  “Before they converted to Christianity – long before the church was built. I have to say, I’m surprised the gold was still there.”

  “Talking of gold, which you found, obviously, did you resist the temptation?” she asked, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

  “I haven’t pocketed any, if that’s what you mean,” said David reddening. “We removed a coin for analysis, but unfortunately it was taken when the museum was ransacked.”

  “I’m not sorry to see the back of that,” said Rachel, shivering.

  “So anyway,” continued David, trying to regain his composure, “I mean no disrespect, Marianne, but so far there have been lots of ‘ifs’ and ‘ands’ and ‘maybes’ with regards to this gospel. Can I ask you a blunt question: do you have even a rough idea where it’s hidden?”

  Marianne hesitated.

  “You’re kidding me! You don’t know where it is, do you?”

  “You must understand we are talking of an event that occurred more than 700 years ago, during turbulent times. The Madeleine died in the flames at Montségur.”

  David fell silent.

  “But what of her daughter?” asked Rachel.

  “She was taken into safe-keeping after the fall of Montségur, but if she knew the whereabouts of the gospel, that information has long since been lost.”

  “Is it possible Saunière found the gospel?”

  “It is possible,” said Marianne. “But unlikely, I think. He would not have known it was there – we know he found the tomb of Mary Magdalene, and he may have found some gold in the undercroft, but there would be nothing to make him look further.”

  “Unless the Madeleine who was alive at the time told him. Is it possible he met her, just as we did?”

  “Indeed, they met at the grotto. That much was passed down directly to grandmère. It was the reason why he and Marie spent weeks and weeks bringing all those rocks back to the church, to create a replica of the grotto. But I’m afraid the knowledge of where the gospel was hidden had already been lost.”

  “Marianne, I mean no disrespect, but this sounds like a wild goose chase,” said David. “Have you seen the size of the undercroft?”

  Marianne averted her eyes.

  “You haven’t been down there?”

  “No, Monsieur Tranter, I have not. It was considered too dangerous – I am not completely in control of my own destiny. There is too much at stake.”

  “So just who are these guys protecting you?” he said angrily, glancing at the man who called himself le Comte, who had been silent throughout the proceedings.

  “Monsieur le Comte is – or was, up until the age of 21, my legal guardian. He is like a father to me. Alas, my natural father died many years ago.”

  “But you have hinted at others – and I don’t just mean Hélène, or those gorillas out there,” he said, nodding at the doors through which they had been marched.

  Marianne paused and glanced at le Comte, who nodded his head slightly.

  “Very well. I must have your word that this will go no further,” she said, glancing at them both. They nodded their agreement. “I am being protected by the Rosicrucian Order.”

  Rachel gasped and David’s eyebrows shot up. “They have something of a dodgy reputation, don’t they?” he said.

  “ ‘Dodgy’?” repeated Marianne smiling, pronouncing the English word slowly. “I don’t know this word, but I think I understand the meaning. Rosicrucianism is not ‘dodgy’ – it is not some strange cult. It is an ancient Order, founded on Christianity, which seeks to bring people to the spiritual enlightenment talked of by Jesus. I and my forebears have been protected by the Order for many centuries. In truth, it does have a reputation for being secretive, but that has helped them to guard us. We are their secret; us and the knowledge we possess.”

  “What knowledge is that?” asked David.

  Marianne hesitated once more. “The gospel is not the only secret the Madeleine took to her death at Montségur. She was one of only a few who knew the place to which Our Lady’s body was moved, at the start of the crusade.”

  David gave a sharp intake of breath. “That would be a spectacular find. There must be more, though. You talk of ancient secrets…”

  “Now is not the time to reveal that information,” interrupted Marianne, kindly but firmly. “First, we must find the gospel. Will you help me in this sacred quest?”

  “Of course we will,” said Rachel. “How could we not?”

  “And you, Mr Tranter? You are the archaeologist. We need your skills.”

  “How could an Englishman fail to help a damsel in distress? And, to be blunt, from an archaeological perspective, the Lost Gospel would be the find of a lifetime. So yes, of course I will. Despite my misgivings.”

  “I thank you, both. I leave it to you as to how you wish to proceed. I am sure you will want to carry out more research, and here at the château we have one of the largest collections of books on the history and legends of the Languedoc, covering Rennes-le-Château, the Cathars, the legends of Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer and many similar subjects. You are also free to use our wi-fi connection for the internet.”

  She smiled. “And now, let me show you to your rooms.”

  “We didn’t bring any bags,” said Rachel. “We didn’t expect to be staying.”

  “I brought my laptop and camera, because I didn’t want to leave them at the hotel. But I’ve no spare clothes, either,” added David.

  “No matter. Rachel can borrow some of my clothes – I think we’re about the same size. It is safer not to return to your hotel for the moment, I think. David, if you jot down your sizes, Gilles will arrange for some clothes to be left in your room. I will make sure your camera and laptop are brought up from the car, too.”

  Marianne led them out of the large drawing room, past the guards who had escorted them into the building, and along the corridor to what was obviously the grand staircase, a sweeping symp
hony of marble and gilded wrought iron encircled by a magnificent balcony overlooking the main entrance hall below. They followed her up the stairs, marvelling at the black and gold Corinthian columns that studded the balcony, supporting an ornately painted vaulted ceiling above the stairwell.

  Marianne glanced back at them, and smiled at their awe-struck expression. “It is rather stunning, isn’t it? The château was built in the 14th century, after the original château of Peyrepertuse was abandoned, but the interior was extensively remodelled in the 17th and 18th centuries.”

  “It’s a hidden gem,” said David, craning his neck to admire the ceiling’s intricate detailing.

  “Yes, though it can grow wearisome. Sometimes I just long for an ordinary home,” she said, a wistful look on her face.

  “You’re kidding me, right?” said Rachel.

  “I know it sounds ungrateful, but I often wish I could have an ordinary life. Find someone I love, have children, a career. Yes, I know one day I will marry – must marry, and have children – but will it be for love? For me, finding the right father to continue the Magdalenic line is more important than my own feelings. I must put my responsibilities first, and it can be a heavy burden.”

  She turned and continued up the stairs. “I’m sorry,” she said, as they reached the balcony. “I have been feeling a little down since grandmère died. You must forgive me.”

  “Hey, don’t worry,” said David tenderly. “We completely understand.”

  Marianne led them down a long corridor, pausing after a short distance outside a large panelled door. “Rachel, this is your room.” She opened the door to reveal a sumptuously decorated room, replete with tapestries, a four-poster bed, two massive oak wardrobes and a writing desk.

  “Jeez – this is bigger than my apartment,” gasped Rachel.

  “Well, you could certainly use all that wardrobe space,” said David. “I’m sure it won’t take you long to acquire a new collection.”

  Marianne smiled. “And David, you’re in the room opposite, to make it easier should you need to discuss your research.” She opened the door on a slightly more spartan, but equally spacious oak-panelled room. “Now, why don’t I show you both the library?”

  Marianne led the way back to the grand balcony, walked around to the next quadrant and along another equally imposing corridor before pausing in front of a large pair of doors. “The library,” she announced, throwing them open and allowing Rachel and David to go ahead of her.

  They gasped as they entered a spectacular gallery, with rows of identical, ornately-carved oak bookcases jutting out at right-angles along both sides of the 80-foot room. A series of circular windows just below the ceiling on either side allowed light to flood down into the book-wells below, while two large globes mounted in wooden cradles completed the tableau.

  They wandered down the central corridor between the two stands of bookcases, staring in wonder at the ancient volumes with their hand-tooled leather covers, and inhaling the deep, slightly musty smell of old books.

  “Some of the oldest manuscripts date back to medieval times,” said Marianne. “The counts of Peyrepertuse were assiduous book collectors, and in the early 18th century this library was created to house their acquisitions. The bays are arranged in date order, with the century carved on the end of each case, then alphabetically within the cases themselves. The newer books are at the far end of the room.” They followed her down the long aisle to the final two bays, which were given over to much more recent volumes, many with dust-jackets.

  “Hopefully you will find what you need here – this side of the right-hand bay is almost exclusively devoted to Rennes-le-Château, together with the Magdalene legends of the region. I’m afraid they are mostly in French – I hope that’s not a problem – but there are some English-language volumes, as well.”

  “Having been here for six months we can probably manage the French books – I can read it better than I speak it,” said David apologetically. “Thanks goodness you speak such good English.”

  “I spent a year at Oxford after finishing my studies at the Sorbonne,” said Marianne. “And don’t tell the Academie Française, but let’s be honest, English is the language of the internet – at least, from a research point of view. Anyway, David, can we leave you here while we go off and have a girlie half-hour choosing come clothes?”

  “No problem,” said David. “Though I suspect it may be more than half an hour,” he added, smirking.

  Marianne chuckled. “You might just be right. Come on, Rachel, let’s see what we can find.”

  Chapter 43

  Rachel returned to the library an hour later, dressed in a stunning, figure-hugging, sleeveless cream Dior dress, loosely tied with a rope belt.

  “Wow,” he said.

  “Wow indeed. Pity I don’t get to keep it – there’s no way I could afford one on my salary. So what have you come up with?”

  “Give me a break – I’ve only been doing this for an hour, while you’ve been gallivanting around with Marianne. As she said, there are loads of books on Rennes here – I’ve put some on the table that look interesting, if you want to start browsing through them. I’m going to skim through some of these archaeological journals on the area.”

  The pile of books David had sorted through included several self-published booklets from authors putting forward their own theories on Rennes, some flat-out wacky, others more considered.

  She leafed her way through them, creating two new piles – one worthy of further reading, the other to be discarded.

  “You know, there’s something important that keeps cropping up in these that we’ve been guilty of neglecting,” said Rachel thoughtfully.

  “What’s that?”

  “The tombstone of Marie de Blanchefort, with that weird inscription. Here it is again, in this booklet.”

  David came over and looked down at the familiar inscription:

  CT GIT NOBLe M

  ARIE DE NEGRe

  DARLES DAME

  DHAUPOUL De

  BLANCHEFORT

  AGEE DE SOIX

  ANTE SEpT ANS

  DECEDEE LE

  XVII JANVIER

  MDCOLXXXI

  REQUIES CATIN

  PACE

  “It’s got to be some kind of code,” said Rachel. “Look at the way words are misspelt and broken – not to mention the seemingly random use of lower-case letters.”

  “I agree with you,” said David. “It’s about the only code or inscription that we know to be genuine. Most, if not all, the parchments are fakes – disinformation, if you believe Hélène’s story, and it certainly makes sense. But this… this is genuine, no question. Even though Saunière eventually destroyed the stone, the inscription was recorded in a survey around the turn of the century. Matter of fact, I’ve just come across a reference to it… it was here somewhere. Here we are, the Bulletin de la Société d’Ètudes Scientifiques de l’Aude, volume XVII – 1906, actually.”

  “There are also references here to another, horizontal stone that was allegedly part of the original tomb,” said Rachel.

  “With the emphasis on the word ‘allegedly’,” said David. “Its existence has never been proven, so I would tend to discount it. It’s not mentioned in this survey. I think it’s a fake, just like the ‘official’ decoding of the inscription that has aroused so much interest over recent years – the so-called ‘Blue Apples’ clue.”

  “Dubois mentioned something about that. Sounded pretty weird to me.”

  “Totally weird – a classic example of some of the more extreme theories that surround this place. Philippe de Cherisey – whom we know to be the man behind the fake parchments that Saunière allegedly found, thanks to an admission he made to a colleague later in life – also came up with a bizarre decoding of the tombstone. Actually, to be more precise, he claimed the inscription on the tombstone was the key for decoding one of those parchments that magically appeared – it’s had experts scratching their heads for de
cades. It’s in one of these books…” He rummaged through the piles and pulled out a slim volume. “Here we are,” he said, after flipping through the pages. “This is what he came up with, allegedly using a very complex decoding technique known as the Knight’s Tour:

  BERGERE PAS DE TENTATION QUE POUSSIN TENIERS GARDENT LA CLEF PAX DCLXXXI PAR LA CROIX ET CE CHEVAL DE DIEU J’ACHEVE CE DAEMON DE GARDIEN A MIDI POMMES BLEUES

  “In English?” queried Rachel.

  “It translates roughly as:

  SHEPHERDESS NO TEMPTATION THAT POUSSIN, TENIERS HOLD THE KEY PEACE 681 BY THE CROSS AND THIS HORSE OF GOD I FINISH OFF THIS DEMON GUARDIAN, AT MIDDAY BLUE APPLES

  “That’s just gobbledygook.”

  “Quite. But despite its nonsensical content, treasure-hunters still turn up at Rennes on January 17 when an anomaly of the light passing through the stained glass windows of the church makes smudgy blue blobs appear on the wall inside the church. Actually, they’re not just blue – they are all the colours of the rainbow; I know, I was there setting up the dig in January and couldn’t resist the temptation to take a look. And then there was all the furore about Poussin and Teniers, and whether they were all part of some elaborate conspiracy over the centuries.”

  “Of course – the Poussin painting, Shepherds of Arcadia, featured a tomb bearing the phrase Et in Arcadia Ego, and I’ve heard there was a tomb that resembled it on the road to Arques,” said Rachel.

  “That’s right – the one that dated from the 1920s. The owner got so fed up with treasure-hunters crawling all over it that he blew it up with dynamite. A complete red herring. If there is a connection between Poussin and the Magdalene, it’s not that.”

  “You keep saying ‘the Magdalene’, without making any reference to Marianne. You’re still sceptical, aren’t you?”

  “Sceptical? Yes, that what you guys pay me for – a scientific approach to history, not just making giant leaps of faith, if you’ll forgive the pun. Marianne is self-evidently a very intelligent young woman who genuinely believes in her cause; someone whose lineage could quite possible be traced back to the Cathars, if you tried hard enough. But does that make her a direct descendant of Mary Magdalene? The jury’s still out, as far as I’m concerned.”