by Richard Reed
“The same thought had crossed my mind. I didn’t remember the gap looking that small when we came through last time. I hope he can make it – if we run into any trouble, he’s the kind of guy I want at my back. If it’s a no-go, we’ll have to send him back to swap places with Marcel. Now, when you get to the other side, you’ll need to take off your rucksack to climb over that rock-fall. Put it back on again once you’re through, and make sure you secure the buckles thoroughly – that way, even if I slip, you won’t be dragged back again.”
In the event, all three of them successfully negotiated the chasm without mishap, though by the time they reached the far side, Rachel and David were both jittery and breathing hard. Pierre seemed unruffled, despite having to squeeze his bulk through the tight gap between the rock-fall and the cave ceiling.
“De rien – it’s nothing,” he said, shrugging his shoulders in typical Gallic fashion, when Rachel asked if he was OK. “In rugby, you can have five guys my size on top of you.”
Rachel shuddered at the thought.
“Right, let’s get a move on,” said David. “I’ve tied the other end of the rope on the far side of the chimney – I thought it might be an idea to leave it here in case we need to make a swift exit.” So saying, he tied the remainder of the rope in a cat’s cradle around a large boulder, leaving the line hanging at roughly waist-height along the narrow ledge they had just traversed.
They continued their way along the tortuous passage as it wound its way up steeply through the hillside, the smooth, wet limestone glistening in the reflected light from their head-torches. Then the tunnel suddenly opened out, and they were standing at the entrance to the burial place of the Visigoth kings. The altar stood before them, the goat’s skull leering at them across the shadowy chamber. Drawn to it inexorably, they walked across to the ancient stone monolith.
As they approached the altar Rachel froze, pointing at the slab in horror. “Blood,” she whispered, barely able to speak. “Fresh blood.”
David moved across to her side, and his face blanched. “That’s no accident,” he said grimly. “I don’t like what’s going on here – the sooner we’re out of this place, the better. Let’s get on with it – I’ll rig up the arc light, then you work your way round that side of the cavern, and I’ll look after this side. Examine the outside of every tomb, and the cave walls, but don’t disturb anything. We need to crack on, too – we’ve probably got no more than half an hour of decent light before the battery dies. Pierre – just stay close and keep your eyes and ears open.”
They slowly made their way along the sides of the chamber, using their torches to augment the light from the arc lamp. The tombs were fairly crude; little more than hollowed out limestone slabs. The lids contained a series of markings in an unknown script, but the walls of the chamber were completely bare. They examined every niche and fissure, but there was nothing to be seen; nothing remotely resembling a clue that might reveal the gospel’s whereabouts.
“Surely it’s worth looking inside the tombs?” asked Rachel, as they met up back at the altar.
“We can try moving the lids, though I don’t know if we’ll have much success,” said David. “They’re solid stone – they must weigh a quarter of a ton apiece. But I’m not about to start rummaging through the contents. If nothing relevant is clearly visible, then we move on. Let’s start with the tomb Saunière found – assuming it was him, and not whoever else has been down here lately.”
They went over to the broken tomb and shone their torches inside. “Hell! Someone’s been at this,” said David.
“What’s up?”
“All the remaining coins have gone – as you know, I only removed one for identification. Now there’s nothing left.”
“You’re kidding me!”
“I wish I was. Whoever uses this place obviously knows we’ve been down here and didn’t want to risk losing them to a museum. OK, let’s see if we can shift this lid.”
They both heaved as hard as they could on the broken side of the sarcophagus lid, but to no avail. As David had predicted, the slabs were far too heavy. “Now we know why this one’s been broken into with a hammer and chisel,” he said bitterly.
“So now what?” said Rachel angrily. “All this struggle to get in here – and for nothing.”
“Please don’t ask me to smash my way into an archaeological treasure trove like this,” said David.
“I’m not asking you to do that. I wouldn’t do it myself. I’m just bloody frustrated,” she snapped, taking off her rucksack and flinging it to the ground next to the altar. She slumped down beside it and buried her head in her hands.
As she looked up, the answer was right in front of her eyes. She knew instantly, as if she had known all her life, that this was what they had been searching for. Spellbound, she traced her finger around the dusty sign carved into the side of the altar. It was, she knew, a Templar symbol: the cross of Christ within a crown. Except that on this occasion, the crown was pierced by a sword, not a cross. And the crown was the same, three-pointed crown worn by Marianne and the Madeleine.
“David,” she said thickly, struggling to find her voice. “I’ve found it.”
“What?” he said, looking up from where he, too, had slumped to the ground in defeat.
“I’ve found it,” she repeated more loudly, still barely able to believe that the object of their quest was right in front of her eyes.
David picked himself and knelt down beside her. Rachel traced the symbol again with her finger. “Look, the Templar cross and crown – but this time with a sword replacing the cross. Remember Bigou’s cryptic message? ‘Note where the sword is put.’ And here it is – through the crown worn by the Madeleine.”
David examined the symbol, carefully. She was right: it was clearly not Visigoth artwork, although they had later converted to Christianity. But it was one of several signs with which the Templars were closely associated. And judging from the discolouration, it had been there a long time.
“It looks pretty genuine,” he admitted, standing up. “There’s only one problem: this altar is a solid slab of rock.”
Rachel stood up and realised that what he said was true. It was hewn from a solid piece of limestone. It didn’t even have a lid like the sarcophagi. So near, yet so far. Disappointment crashed through her, and she sank back down on her haunches, her hands clasped to her face to hide the tears that pricked her eyes. No, this would not do. Fighting to keep her emotions in check, she sat back and tried to look at the altar dispassionately. There had to be something else – something they hadn’t yet figured out. Then she noticed a slight discolouration on the left-hand side of the stone, and leaned forward to get a closer look.
“David!” she said urgently. “Take a look at this! We’re definitely on the right track – there’s an identical symbol on the other side of the altar!”
“You’re right,” he said, stepping forward and peering closely. “But we’re still no closer to finding the answer.”
They stared at the two symbols in frustration. Then Rachel, tilting her head to one side, noticed something odd. Her eyes travelled to the bottom of the stone, and she gave a gasp of disbelief.
“What is it?”
“The two symbols!” exclaimed Rachel. “They’re mirror images of each other. The swords are both on the diagonal through the crown, but they’re pointing towards each other – and downwards. And there, at the bottom, in the centre…” she reached forward and scooped away the accumulation of debris on the cave floor, to confirm her suspicions “…there between them, at ground level, is a third, identical symbol – except this time, the sword is pointing straight down vertically. And look what new symbol the three create together – the V, the womb, the sacred feminine, just as in The Last Supper, pointing the way!”
“I think you’re jumping to conclusions again…”
His words fell on deaf ears as Rachel continued to scrabble away in the dust.
“There’s a hollow in the rock here; it’s bee
n filled with stone dust,” she muttered, clawing at the ground with her bare fingers, not wanting to stop to find a trowel. Then her fingers touched something hard, something with a shape, something warmer than the surrounding stone.
“There’s something made of wood here,” she said excitedly.
“For heaven’s sake, Rachel, don’t touch it – whatever you’ve found could be more than 1,000 years old – if you’re not careful it will just crumble to dust!” David rapidly unbuckled his rucksack and pulled out a brush and a small trowel. Rachel moved aside as he knelt down and carefully began to move the debris to one side, little by little, until a fragment of wood appeared. He continued to sift the dust from around the edges, until it was clear they were looking at the corner of a small wooden box, tilted slightly to one side. Now he could see the shape and alignment, David started removing the debris more rapidly until the whole of the box lid was visible.
He gently brushed the surface of the rough wooden container with his fingers – it was roughly six inches long by four inches wide. “It feels fairly solid, thankfully,” he said. “Unlike the passageway, this floor’s fairly dry, and the wood is probably oak or elm. We can’t be sure about whatever’s inside, though,” he added. “It will need the same treatment as the parchment we found.”
Rachel watched silently as David used his trowel to scrape away the dirt around the box until the bottom edge was visible, then inserting the point of his trowel underneath, he eased the box clear of the hole. He picked it up gingerly. “We’re lucky,” he said over his shoulder. “The box looks pretty sound…”
He broke off as a gunshot ricocheted across the chamber. Spinning round, he saw a column of black figures in hooded robes filing into the cavern from the far end. One of the men had broken away and stood, smoking gun in hand, over the slumped body of Pierre, whose lifeblood was rapidly spilling out onto the stone floor.
The man turned and strode towards them, lowering his hood. It was Dubois. And now he was pointing the gun directly at Rachel, who was kneeling with tears running down her face, her hand over her mouth in disbelief.
“If either of you move, she dies too,” he said icily.
“What do you want, Dubois?” asked David quietly.
“I want the Madeleine. Nothing more, nothing less. And for that, you can keep your precious little gospel – don’t think I don’t know about it. Theologians will argue over it for decades; it proves nothing. But the Madeleine is different.”
“What do you want with her?”
“Her life,” said Dubois, simply. “Christianity is dying, my friend. The churches are empty. People are returning to the old ways, the old gods. She alone has the power to revive it. I cannot allow that to happen. Those of us who follow other paths are emerging from centuries of persecution. Countless thousands of our brethren were burned at the stake by her kind. She is a necessary sacrifice.”
“Her kind were burned at the stake, too, Dubois,” said Rachel furiously, recovering from her initial shock. “Or slaughtered in their beds, in towns like Béziers! Didn’t they teach you history at school?”
Dubois bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Indeed, I sympathise with the fate of the Cathars. But regardless of history, the unveiling of the Madeleine at this hour would, I fear, bring new persecution upon our heads. By sacrificing the bride of Christ, we will appease the ancient gods and pay the debt owed by those who killed in his name.”
“Do you seriously think the Madeleine would give herself up to you?” said David savagely. “Even if she were naive enough to come, there is no way her people would allow her anywhere near this place.”
“Ah, you speak of the Rosicrucians, I think. We know they have been protecting her. Well, you must find ways to persuade them – and her,” said Dubois suavely. “Assuming, that is, you want to see your ‘friend’ alive again.”
“If you kill Rachel you lose your bargaining chip.”
“She is expendable. And given that she helped to discover the Madeleine, a fair sacrifice.”
“And if the Madeleine gives herself up, what guarantees do I have that you will free Rachel?”
Rachel stared at David in horror. “For God’s sake, David, don’t even think about it! Marianne is far more important than me! It’s vital her message gets out!”
“Religion has caused enough death and destruction,” said David, looking at her steadily. “I wish Marianne no ill, but you’re much more important to me.”
Rachel stared at him with a confused mixture of anger and tenderness. “Just don’t do it,” she said finally in an unsteady voice, looking away to hide her tears.
“Well, much as I hate to interrupt this charming show of affection, we really do need to make a decision, don’t we, Mr Tranter?” said Dubois sarcastically. “What is it to be? The Madeleine or your girlfriend?”
“And if I refuse to make a choice?”
“Then regretfully I will have to kill both of you.”
David’s mind raced as he stalled for time. Refusing to cooperate was clearly not an option, but he had no intention of handing over Marianne on a platter for these deranged cultists to have their way with.
“And the gospel?” he asked.
“Stays here,” said Dubois firmly. “Consider it an added incentive.”
“What guarantees do I have you won’t destroy it?”
“You will just have to trust me, Monsieur.”
David was still standing several feet behind Rachel. He had to act quickly if he were to act at all. Though in his mind the gospel was of small importance compared to the lives of Rachel or Marianne, he was damned if he was handing over to Dubois something that so many had died to protect.
“OK, Dubois you win,” said David reluctantly.
“NO!” screamed Rachel, her voice strangled with grief.
“I’m going to put this box down slowly on the ground, and walk out of here. Keep Rachel safe and I’ll try to broker a deal. But if you harm a hair on her head, I swear to God I’ll hunt you down and kill you with my bare hands.”
He knelt down, lowering the box, but as his hand reached the ground he grabbed a nearby lump of rock, threw back his arm, and hurled it at Dubois with all his might. Not for nothing had David played cricket for Oxford – he could hit the wicket from 50 yards. Dubois was too surprised to move. The stone hit him square between the eyes, and he went down as if he’d been felled.
“Run Rachel, run,” bellowed David, turning and charging towards the tunnel entrance, twisting and weaving as gunfire echoed around the cavern. A cultist lunged at him, then dropped to the ground screaming, caught in the hail of bullets. Others close by backed away, anxious to avoid the same fate.
Another scream of pain echoed through the cave; this time a woman’s. David just had time to glance over his shoulder and see Rachel lying horribly still on the ground, then the tunnel was upon him.
He had no way of knowing if she was alive or dead, but there was no going back now; he could do nothing to help her. Clutching the box tightly, he ran as fast as he dared through the downward-leading fissure, ducking under projecting rocks, his feet slithering on the smooth, damp stone. He could hear the sounds of pursuit, running feet punctuated by curses as Dubois’ men banged heads, knees and elbows on the unyielding stone.
He rounded a corner to see the roof-fall just yards ahead. Without stopping to think, he clawed his way over the pile of mud and stones, then quickly shuffled across the tiny ledge beside the gaping maw of the chasm, clutching the rope as he went. As he reached the far side, he spun round, yanked out his climbing knife and slashed the line. Two quick strokes of the sharp blade was all it took, then he was running again, not looking, not caring about what happened to his pursuers.
As he hurtled headlong down the tunnel, he heard a horrible tumbling sound behind him, a desperate shout, cut off abruptly in mid-cry, then a babble of voices. Slowly the sounds receded as he continued his flight through the passage, then suddenly he was scrambling out into the warm n
ight air.
“It’s OK, Marcel, it’s me,” he gasped as a shape loomed in front of him. “Let’s get out of here. Vite!”
Chapter 46
“I will not leave Rachel to die!” said Marianne furiously, banging her fist on the green-baize desk, her dark eyes flashing dangerously. “I will not!”
“I cannot allow you to go there,” said the Count, quietly. “You don’t know she will be killed – we can alert the gendarmerie…”
“The gendarmerie? That’s a joke – that would be a death sentence! They will be in somebody’s pay, if not the cult then the Church.”
“Surely we can go back with some of your men,” put in David. “She’s put her life at stake for Marianne. You owe her that much. I’m not suggesting Marianne goes herself…”
“And you think Dubois will just hand her over? Or were you planning some kind of ‘Gunfight at the O.K. Corral’ down there?” said Marianne icily.
The three sat stony-faced in the Count’s study the following morning, conducting a council of war. After the events of the night before, everyone’s nerves were frayed.
“I still don’t understand how they found you there…” Marianne turned to the Count frustratedly. “Has someone betrayed us, Gilles?”
“I think it’s more a case of ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’. The cult is a poorly kept secret in local circles. What better way for the Church to be rid of both you and the gospel? However, I will make inquiries – it is possible there was a leak somewhere in our organisation.”
Silence fell again, broken only by the ticking of an ornate gold Napoleon III ormalu clock on the mantelpiece.
“Well, I agree we have to do something,” said the Count eventually. “But we don’t even know if Rachel is still alive, horrible though that thought may be. I suggest we wait until they contact us, then David and I will go back with some of the men and try to force their hand.”
“And probably all get killed,” said Marianne stubbornly.
The Count sighed in exasperation, before turning to David. “Changing the subject briefly, how long will it be before we can start getting the gospel translated?”
