by Richard Reed
“OK, no more insults, but… maybe you’re right.”
“Why thank you, kind sir,” said Rachel, in her best British accent.
“OK, let’s reprise the rest of the painting – which, we should remember, Saunière painted himself. Mary Magdalene is in her grotto, with a wooden cross, made out of two sticks tied together. There is the Bible – although, of course, from what we now know, it could be the Lost Gospel. And there is the skull, traditionally supposed to symbolise man’s mortality, from which only the word of God can save us. But could it mean more than that?”
“And then there are those strangely crossed hands, with interlocking fingers, that some people think could be a Freemasonry connection,” put in Rachel.
“That one really is a little wacky.”
“I’m inclined to agree. But they do look odd. And it’s possible Saunière believed that the Freemasons were linked to the Templars, as some people claim, even if it’s not true. Then we’ve got the sword, and possible treasure. Well, we’ve found the treasure, but not a sword, as yet… I can’t see anything else obvious in the painting itself…”
“What about the inscription? ‘Jesu medela vulnerum, spes una poenitentium.’”
“Is that all?” queried Rachel, peering at the laptop screen.
“What do you mean, ‘all’?”
“I thought the inscription was longer than that.”
“That’s all there is here.”
“You haven’t cut off the photo?”
“No!”
“OK, keep your shirt on. Hang on a minute.” She grabbed the book she had bought in Rennes and thumbed through it. “Here we are,” she said triumphantly. “It seems there was a second line, but at some point it was removed. That’s weird!”
“Nothing surprises me about this place any more.”
“Agreed. Anyway, the missing line reads: ‘Per Magdalene lacrymas, peccata nostra diluas.’”
David was busy scribbling on a piece of scrap paper. “OK, well what we’ve roughly got is something like, ‘Jesus, you remedy for our ills and only hope for repentance, through Magdalene’s tears you wash away our sins.’
“Hmm.”
“Now what?”
“Your Latin is a lot better than mine, but couldn’t the word ‘vulnerum’ be linked, grammatically, to Jesus? In other words, could it read something like, ‘Wounded Jesus, our remedy and one hope of penance…’ ”
“I’m no expert, but I suppose it’s possible – especially if Saunière were trying to make a point. And those crosses which interrupt the inscription do separate the first three words from the next three.”
“You know it’s a little odd when you think about it, actually,” mused Rachel. “Surely Jesus died on the cross to wash away people’s sins; at least, that’s the conventional Christian belief. But here, it’s saying that through the Magdalene’s tears our sins will be washed away. Moreover, as we’ve discussed, the version of events in which Mary is actually named, in John’s gospel, Christ’s feet are anointed with oil, rather than washed with her tears.”
“So what’s that got to do with the inscription being erased?” said David, puzzled.
“Saunière himself clearly believed the anointing version – you can seen the vase of oil in the stained glass window behind the altar – the biggest feature in the church. That being the case, why does he make reference to Mary’s tears washing away sins in the altar inscription – Luke’s later version of events? Maybe there’s a cryptic message hidden in there… that through Magdalene’s tears you will find Christ’s redemption. Someone removed the part of the inscription for a reason. And actually, in doing so, they have given us a much bigger clue.”
“I must admit under normal circumstances I wouldn’t have thought twice about the wording. But the fact it’s been hacked off does make it pretty suspicious,” agreed David. “Unless it’s just the work of another treasure hunter, I suppose.”
“Well that’s always a possibility, given what else they’ve removed, but in this case it seems a little far-fetched to think a collector would chisel off a line of inscription – I mean, how could they remove it without destroying it?”
“True. So what else has the Abbé Saunière got in store for us here? I suppose next on the list has to be this piece of confection,” said David, opening up the picture of the vast, brightly painted relief of the Sermon on the Mount, at the opposite end of the church to the altar. “As we said the first time we saw it, nothing much unusual about it other than that somewhat incongruous torn bag of money in the foreground – that and a woman who could be Mary clinging to Jesus.”
“Everyone says it’s a bag of money. But whatever’s sticking out of that bag doesn’t look much like a coin, or any other object I recognise. It looks more like a piece of rock – or even bone!”
“I hadn’t noticed that before.” David paused to enhance the picture, drawing around the object before boosting the contrast. “That’s a bit clearer,” he said when he had finished.
“You know what it reminds me of?” said Rachel. “That damned hill again!”
“You’ve got that hill on the brain.”
“Hardly surprising since it crops up so often in both the Stations of the Cross and the altar painting. I wonder if there’s anything in here – it mentions several local landmarks connected to the mystery.” She idly picked up an English language tourist booklet, A Traveller’s Guide to the Mystery of Rennes-le-Château, which she had glanced at earlier, and started leafing through it. Half-way through her face went ashen, and she stared at the page in disbelief. “Oh my God, I don’t believe it!” she said slowly.
“What?” said David, irritatedly.
Rachel slowly turned the booklet round and pointed at the picture that was showing, scarcely able to believe what she had seen.
Used to her melodramatic ways, David pulled the booklet towards him and glanced at the page, then performed an astonished double-take. “That bloody hill!” he said in a strangled voice. There, before his eyes, was the hill in the altar painting, the hill in the Stations of the Cross. Not something that just looked like it; it was the hill. “Mount Cardou,” he breathed.
Chapter 52
Rachel snatched the booklet and started to read out the entry. “Of all the stories connected to the mystery of Rennes-le-Château, the ones linked to this imposing site are certainly the most astonishing. The Knights Templar certainly took an interest in this mountain. It is believed that in the middle of the 12th century they shipped in a contingent of German-speaking miners to carry out excavation works on the slopes of Cardou. The workers were subjected to rigid discipline and were under strict orders not to talk or fraternise with the locals.”
“I hate to pour cold water on all this, but are any source materials cited for these wild claims?”
“No, but I’m assuming the authors are basing this on some kind of oral tradition.”
“Possibly. But it’s all highly speculative.”
“Hey, get this,” said Rachel, ignoring him and reading on excitedly. “This has led to speculation that the Templars may have buried items of extreme importance deep inside Mount Cardou. One of the legends surrounding the knights is that they were in possession of a sacred relic from the Holy Land.”
David laughed derisively. “I’ve heard those sort of stories about the Templars before, but frankly they’re just hocus pocus. It’s true they were given a base on the Temple Mount in Jerusalem after the First Crusade, and the mount is believed to be above the remains of King Solomon’s magnificent temple. Some people think the Templars dug down to find it, and that this was the source of at least some of their wealth, but there is absolutely no evidence for it.”
“Nevertheless, the Templars were closely linked to sacred relics,” persisted Rachel. “Some experts believe the Turin Shroud, with its dramatic ‘negative’ image of Christ, was in their possession during its ‘missing years’ – and new research shows it may not be the fake that people have th
ought since that carbon-dating test a few years ago. It seems that when they did the test they were so worried about damaging the shroud they used a piece from the edge of the fabric, where it had been repaired during the Middle Ages – hence the later dating. Then there’s the Templar painting discovered at Templecombe in England just after the Second World War, now on display in the church, which bears an uncanny resemblance to the image on the shroud. It’s been carbon-dated to the late 13th century, I believe – you’ll know, from your Time Team work.”
“1280, to be precise – at least, that’s the mid-point of the possible date range, if memory serves correctly. But you must understand there was a huge trade in holy relics at the time of the Crusades – they were being turned off the production line like souvenirs. Let’s get back to Mount Cardou, before heading off up a blind alley. We know the Templars were active in this area; there are the remains of Templar forts all over the Languedoc, including the Château de Blanchefort – the watchtower on the opposite side of the valley to Mt Cardou. So despite my scepticism, it’s worth exploring the Cardou link. Based on what Saunière has given us so far, it’s as good a place to start as any. But let’s not forget that what we really want to find is the original gospel, and proof of Mary’s remains. Mitochondrial DNA testing will prove once and for all whether Marianne is related to those remains, which will be pretty goddamned strong evidence that she is who she claims to be. The gospel may help to back that up. So let’s focus. For now we will follow Saunière’s lead, and if that means taking Mount Cardou apart to find it, so be it.”
He paused and started poring over a large-scale map. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “It’s enormous – where the hell do we start?”
“Old Nick!” exclaimed Rachel, lunging for David’s laptop and pulling it towards her.
“What on earth – have you taken leave of your senses?”
“Hell – Old Nick! Lucifer! The statue by the door – the Devil is in the detail…”
“OK, what have you found?”
Rachel paused for a while, staring at the grotesque statue of the Devil that stood inside the church door at Rennes-le-Château, his horned head surmounted by the Holy Water stoup, and above that an ornate crest displaying twin salamanders, semi-mythical lizards symbolically impervious to fire. The top half of the statue was given over to a group of female saints, standing on a plinth inscribed with the now familiar saying, Par ce signe tu le vaincras. Pride of place, visually, at the centre of the work, was given to a vivid crimson seal bearing the initials ‘BS’.
“I know we’ve gone over this before, but I’m not convinced those are just Bérenger Saunière’s initials, as most people seem to believe,” she said. “Given what else we’ve discovered in the church, isn’t it more likely to be another clue – on the surface, perhaps, his initials, but in reality, a pointer to something else?”
“I suppose it’s possible.”
Rachel had a sudden flash of inspiration. “There’s a rock called Le Fauteuil du Diable – the Devil’s Armchair – near the chambre d’hôte at Rennes-les-Bain, isn’t there?” she said brightly. “I remember the owner talking about it. And aren’t the two rivers that meet nearby called the Blanque and the Sals?”
“I’m not sure where this is heading,” said David, still studying the map. “That’s a mile or so south of Mount Cardou.”
“Yes, but it’s a clue – can’t you see, he’s giving us a series of prompts. And who knows precisely where the Templars were digging their mine. Give me the map. Look! There’s Rennes-les-Bains, and the rivers Sals and Blanque come together just below it in a V-shape. And… I don’t believe it!”
“What?”
“There’s a spring called La Source de la Madeleine right next door – and Mount Cardou is immediately to the north!” She fell silent for a moment, deep in thought, then a look of understanding dawned on her face, and she grabbed David excitedly. “The Sals is a salt river, isn’t it? Through Magdalene’s tears… This is the answer! He’s giving us a map, dropping in as many geographic clues as he can! Look at the salamander crest – see how the two plumes below the BS seal join together in a V-shape, just like the confluence of the rivers? And they’re painted blue. Isn’t that a bit of a coincidence? Come to think of it, I think that crest appears above all the Stations of the Cross. And those plumes emerge from a gold crown.”
“I like the link to ‘Magdalene’s tears’. But that still doesn’t pinpoint the exact location.”
“I know, I know – we’re so tantalisingly close…” She paused, racking her brain for ideas. “It’s got to be something to do with the Devil,” she said finally. “As we’ve said before, why put him right next to the door of the church – the first thing people see when they go inside is a statue of Old Nick, rather than Christ! And the inscription: Par ce signe tu le vaincras. Why the addition of the word ‘le’? Saunière was so meticulous. Was it another reference to the Magdalene, with the number 22, as we thought earlier – or is it that just a red herring? Maybe it was simpler than that; maybe he was referring directly to the statue of the Devil; a pointer that he’s an important clue in the trail.”
“Under the circumstances, that seems more likely. I think you were on the right track with that heraldic device above the Devil’s head. If we’re going to continue with this wild goose chase, it seems to me the first place to start looking is the Devil’s Armchair.”
“Agreed,” said Rachel. “God, it’s going to be hard to sleep tonight.” She stood up, clasping her hands to her head momentarily as she was overcome by a wave of vertigo. “My brain is racing out of control – where does all this stop?”
David moved closer to hold her, his hands resting gently on her slim hips. He looked into her eyes tenderly. “I don’t know the answer to that, but I do know we’re riding the dragon. Going back to Rennes will attract unwanted attention. You’ve had a pretty damn close brush with death twice, now – you’ve still got a hole in your leg, for God’s sake. I don’t want it to be third time unlucky.”
“I don’t think there’s any going back now,” said Rachel softly, touched by his concern. “We’re all potential targets. Our most sacred duty is to protect Marianne, and she won’t be safe until the truth is finally unveiled.”
“Anyway,” she said, pinching his bottom playfully, “You seem to forget I’m quite capable of looking after myself.”
Chapter 53
They waited a few more days for Rachel’s leg to start healing, but she was champing at the bit to get on with the search and refused to listen to David’s pleas to lie low for a couple of weeks before continuing with their mission.
“It will only give them time to regroup – we must keep going,” she insisted vehemently. In the end her argument had won the day, and they set off at the crack of dawn the following Sunday morning; a time when they hoped most people would still be in bed. They took some basic precautions, David growing a beard during the enforced wait, while Rachel, using a hiking stick for support, wore her hair up, and put a scarf over her head.
“That puts ten years on you,” said David, with a sly grin, earning himself an evil glare.
“If it keeps me safe, I don’t care,” she said sniffily. “Suffice it to say that with that beard and bald head, you certainly won’t be getting much attention from anyone – especially women.”
With Hélène and a driver as escort, they headed to a small car park on the outskirts of Rennes-les-Bains, where they left the Citroen and started out on foot up a small side turning. The tarmac ended abruptly in a farmyard, where a well-worn path led steeply up the hillside beyond, disappearing into a dense chestnut forest.
As they followed the track up through the sun-dappled woodland, the trauma of the past few weeks seemed to slip away. The golden light filtered through the leaves, playing on their faces, and the sound of a small brook was never far from their ears as it tumbled down the craggy hillside. It all seemed a million miles away from the dark violence of the Visigoth cav
ern.
Eventually the track emerged in a small woodland glade on the edge of the hill, bounded on one side by a steep ravine. In front of them, overlooking the valley below, lay a square grey slab of rock, encrusted with green-grey lichen.
“Behold, Le Fauteuil du Diable,” said Hélène, smiling, with a dramatic flourish, gesturing for them to join her.
“So this is it!” said Rachel. “I can see why everyone has been getting excited about it – it really does look like an armchair.”
The huge chair-shaped rock had obviously been hollowed out by human hand – and carved with great precision. They walked around it slowly, examining it from every angle.
“What’s this, Hélène?” asked Rachel, pointing to a nearby pool about the size of small wash-hand basin, that was clearly man-made. It was fed from an open conduit carved into the horizontal stone slab that lay behind it.
“That is La Source du Cercle. It is a sacred spring and has been revered for centuries. Many believe it has healing properties – several people claim to have had miraculous cures from it.”
“Hmm,” said Rachel, her interest piqued. “It seems a little odd to have a sacred spring next to the Devil’s Armchair, doesn’t it?”
“It wasn’t always named this way,” said Hélène. “It was originally known as Le Fauteuil d’Isis.”
“The armchair of Isis?” said David, startled. “The Templars were heavily influenced by Middle Eastern mythology – their ceremonies borrowed heavily from the Roman cult of Mithras, for instance. The cult of Isis started in Egypt, of course, but later spread throughout the Greco-Roman world. Interestingly, it features a resurrection story in which Isis brings her brother Osiris back to life after he is killed by Seth. Some experts believe the early Catholic Church, in its attempt to eradicate paganism, used Mary Magdalene as a symbolic replacement for Isis, encouraging people to venerate her. It was only later, when her following became too great for comfort, that the Church put out the smear story that she was a prostitute. Instead, they encouraged the adoption of the Virgin Mary; someone who played no significant role in Jesus’s life after his birth, and could therefore pose no threat to the male hierarchy.”
