by Richard Reed
“Wow – the links just keep getting stronger,” said Rachel. “But would Saunière have known it as Le Fauteuil de Diable? It could be an important clue.”
“Oui, certainement,” said Hélène. “It was renamed in the Middle Ages, but he lived here for many years. He would have known the older name, too.” She walked around to the back of the seat. “Observe!” she said, pointing.
“A Templar cross!” exclaimed Rachel.
“So some say,” said Hélène. “It has certainly driven the treasure-hunters crazy over the years – but who knows? Perhaps it was just a mischief-maker.”
“What makes you so sure it’s a Templar cross?” said David dubiously.
“It’s a classic eight-pointed cross, with inward-curving ends,” said Rachel disdainfully.
“Yes, I know that – but as Hélène said, it could have been drawn by anyone.”
“And, of course, there is this, too,” said Hélène, her eyes sparkling mischievously. She gestured to another symbol on the seat of the chair.
“How the hell did I miss that?” said Rachel in disbelief. Carved into the stone in front of her was an ankh, the ancient Egyptian symbol for immortality and eternal life – a cross surmounted by a circle.
“That looks about as genuine as the Templar cross,” said David sarcastically.
“Why the crossed swords on the stem of the ankh, I wonder?” said Rachel, ignoring him.
“Assuming it’s not the carvings of some New Age treasure hunter, you mean?”
She glared at him. “Maybe – maybe not. If there is a Templar link, it could be genuine. Perhaps we have a double, or even a triple meaning here,” she continued thoughtfully. “Maybe he’s giving the Devil’s Armchair as a clue, since it’s such a well-known local landmark, linking in to Old Nick in the church doorway. Then there’s the BS sign, together with the two converging blue plumes in the heraldry, and the 22 letters in the inscription, Par ce signe tu le vaincras, two more than usual, giving us the date of Mary Magdalene’s feast day. And then there are the possible Templar links, again… I’m pretty damn sure the BS stands for the Blanque and the Sals rivers, though,” she continued.
She wandered over to the edge of the steeply sloping hillside and looked out through the canopy of trees across the steep valley of the Sals below, soaking up the astonishing beauty of the hills, folding away in green-grey ripples into the far distance. Then a thought came into her head, and she turned abruptly back to Hélène. “Where is La Source de la Madeleine, exactly? Can you see it from here?”
“It’s across the other side of the gorge, away to the south-west – near where the two rivers join. Not far as the bird flies,” said Hélène, pointing.
“Near where the two rivers join,” repeated Rachel slowly. “The Blanque and the Sals. “And that’s the way the armchair is facing… Le Fauteuil d’Isis is looking across the water at La Source de la Madeleine. Is that a coincidence? Maybe this is just like a treasure hunt, with one clue leading to another. The statuary in the church, the rose window – they all led us to the empty tomb of the pregnant Mary Magdalene. Now perphaps the Devil symbolism is leading us on to the next set of clues.”
“So we go to La Source de la Madeleine?” queried Hélène.
“We sure do,” said Rachel emphatically.
They retraced their steps back down the winding track, past the old farm buildings and then onto the road that led back to Rennes-les-Bains, where the driver was waiting with the car.
“Alain, allez au pont prochain, si vous plaît,” instructed Hélène. “The track starts from the next bridge,” she explained. “It’s not far up the road, but we must keep the car as close as possible in case…”
“Yes, we get the picture,” said David.
Chapter 54
The waymarked trail – one of several opened up by the local tourism department – led across the river Sals close to its confluence with the Blanque via a series of stepping stones, then started winding up the steep flank of the valley, doubling back on itself as it rapidly gained height above the river below.
“It can’t be much further,” said David, poring over the map while they stopped to catch their breath. “Have you ever been here, Hélène?”
“No – I’ve been to the fauteuil, but never here. Everyone knows where it is, but few visit – only the tourists.”
“I find that strange,” said David. “You’re related to Marianne, so you’re part of the family; her family, since that’s the assumption we’re working on now. Why haven’t you been here before?”
“You live and work in London, David. When did you last visit St Paul’s Cathedral or Westminster Abbey?”
David reddened. “When I was a boy.”
“You see, we often take for granted the things closest to us, however important or beautiful they are. They’re so close we look right past them.”
“Hey, that’s pretty prophetic,” said Rachel, stepping back to the edge of the path and staring past them. “I think we’ve just found it – look behind you!”
Hélène and David turned round to look at the hillside rising steeply behind them. A jumble of rocks lay at the edge of the path, cutting into the leaf-strewn earth bank. At the rear stood a small, grass-covered knoll with an exposed face of bare rock, and at its base a dark cleft. As their eyes took in the apparent chaos of rock, covered with lichen and layer upon layer of fallen leaves, they were able to make out a crude semi-circle of stones enclosing a small pool – or what would have been a pool, had it contained any water. The more they looked, the more obvious the shape became.
Rachel clambered into the dry basin and knelt down to peer at the cleft in the rock. “You’re going to think I’m sounding off again, but does that shape remind you of anything, David?”
“What in particular?”
“Like the V-shaped opening with that narrow cleft above?”
“You’re on about the sacred feminine, again.”
“It’s pretty hard to ignore, don’t you think?”
“Now you’ve pointed it out, then yes, but you can see shapes in anything if you stare hard enough.”
“Maybe. But I’m betting this is an ancient pagan site, presumably to some kind of mother goddess. Interesting that it’s been renamed for the Madeleine – not the Virgin Mary. I wish we could enlarge the opening somehow, but we can’t just start digging up an ancient monument. Wait a minute – what are those markings on that little projection of rock at the top…” She leaned in to get a closer look, then turned round to look at David, her eyes gleaming. “It’s a head – complete with moustache. And more importantly, a helmet. It looks ancient, David – this isn’t recent work. In fact, this place looks completely neglected. But I’m guessing Saunière found this and laid an elaborate trail of clues. You’re right about the carvings on Le Fauteuil du Diable, they’re not genuine – Saunière put them there! He led us to the Fauteuil so he could drop in another clue – this time, a real Templar connection!
“Well if it does lead here it’s no help to us,” said David. “As you say, this is the French equivalent of a scheduled ancient monument. We can’t dig here without a permit, and that could take months to arrange, given the speed of French bureaucracy.”
“But what if the trail doesn’t stop here? Maybe it’s just another signpost along the way.”
“And maybe this is a cul-de-sac,” said David gently. “But let’s not give up on it just yet. Help me get rid of this debris so we can get a more thorough look at the site. The best archaeological finds are often well hidden. If nothing else, it would be respectful to tidy the place up a little.”
They set to work, removing armfuls of leaves that had accumulated over the years, together with numerous broken branches and odd lumps of rock that had fallen in from the hillside above. When they had finished, the shape of the basin in front of the source was much more defined.
Rachel left David studying the layout and clambered up above the pool, where a break in the dense foliage
gave a commanding view over the valley of the river Blanque far below. She stood staring down the precipitous drop, lost in thought. All the clues Saunière had so carefully laid seemed to lead to Le Fauteuil du Diable – and then to this place. The solution felt tantalisingly close, yet just out of reach. She ran back over their research, desperately cudgelling her brains for something they had missed.
Then a flash of inspiration burst in her mind, and she scrambled back down the hillside as fast as she was able, only just keeping her footing as she slithered on the loose scree, and cannoned into David, still standing by the pool. “Hey, go easy with that leg,” he said, grabbing her to stop her falling. “Are you OK? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Remember that booklet we read in the château library? The one that mentioned Templar excavations on Mount Cardou – and the German miners they brought in?”
“I do, but it wasn’t an original source, and there was no citation. I’ve not seen it mentioned anywhere else…”
Rachel ignored him, and spun round to face Hélène.
“Are there any old mine-workings around here that you know of?”
Hélène paused for thought. “Possibly. I remember hearing about some old mine workings up here somewhere, as a child,” she said. “Of course, we were told not go near them, but we still went looking. We never found them, though.”
Rachel gave David a meaningful glance. “Do you know when the mine dates back to?”
“I believe it was last used in the 19th century, but people have been mining Pech Cardou for many hundreds of years – the geology is rich in copper and lead.”
“We’ve got to see it,” said Rachel, emphatically. “We can’t afford to ignore any leads, however unlikely they may seem. Can you take us there?”
“As I said, I do not know exactly where it is – but it is supposed to be somewhere near an old shrine on the side of the mountain. I remember Anne-Marie telling me about it.”
“Can you take us to the shrine, then?”
“Oui, I have been there as a child. It is not far from here. We need to take the car to Montferrand, a small village above Rennes-les-Bains, and we can walk from there. It is about 45 minutes on foot.”
“Great. Let’s go!”
They retraced their steps to the car, and then returned to Rennes-les-Bains, where Alain, the driver, turned across one of the town’s two ancient bridges high over the river Sals, negotiating the tiny little back-streets at a speed that made Rachel hide her eyes in horror – at one point squeezing the car through a gap between two houses that was so small the wing-mirrors almost brushed the stonework.
From there it was a five-minute drive up a steep mountain road to Montferrand. Just outside the village, the driver turned off down a badly rutted track and pulled in behind a derelict farmhouse.
“The path starts back there, but we don’t want to advertise our presence,” said Hélène.
They walked back up the muddy lane, then took a small, almost hidden path that disappeared through the brambles, following the course of a stream. After a hundred yards or so, the path gave way onto an ancient, grassy track which started gently winding its way up the tree-covered flank of Mount Cardou. The track had been well engineered, cut into the side of the hill, and in many places the remains of an old stone retaining wall could still be seen.
“It must have taken some work to build this,” said David. “Looks pretty industrial.”
After half an hour or so, the track abruptly gave way to dense undergrowth, while a small path led off to one side, climbing its way up the flank of Mount Cardou, now towering high above them.
“Well if this did lead to the mine, it’s impassable now,” observed David. “I guess we’ve no option but to take the higher route and try strike back down the hillside a little further on.”
After 15 minutes’ hard climbing up the tortuous footpath, Hélène stopped where it crossed a steep slope littered with rocks and loose stones. “I think the shrine is somewhere near here,” she said hesitantly. “I was only nine or 10 when I came here; it’s hard to remember.”
David gave a snort of frustration.
“Don’t worry,” said Rachel, diplomatically. “Why don’t we spread out? There are four of us – that gives us a much better chance of finding it. If one of us sees it, just holler. And if anyone gets separated, make your way back up to the path and wait here.”
Alain looked uncomfortable and muttered something in Occitan to Hélène. Neither David nor Rachel could follow the conversation, but her sharp tone spoke volumes. He shrugged his shoulders in typically Gallic fashion, and she turned back to face them. “He is not happy about us splitting up, but we have no choice. Let’s go.”
They started to scramble down the hillside, slipping and sliding on the loose scree, making their way crab-wise across the steep slope. Several times people slipped, only saving themselves from falling further by grasping at shrubs that sprouted from the chaotic jumble of rock.
After 50 yards they reached more stable ground, and were able to scramble through the more dense vegetation they encountered without too much difficulty.
Suddenly David heard a shout from Rachel. Spinning on his heels, he turned in the direction he had last seen her, and started crashing through the undergrowth towards the sound of her voice. Then he was at her side, standing in the middle of a small clearing.
“This has got to be the grotto,” said Rachel, pointing. In front of them was a shallow cave hollowed out of a large, discoloured outcrop of rock that formed a natural arch above the opening. “It’s not very deep,” she continued, as the others came running. “But it’s quite dramatic. Could this have been the shrine your grandmère told you about?” she queried, turning to Hélène.
“Oui, certainement,” she said excitedly. “This is where we came as young children – it is, as you say, quite impressive. I seem to remember there being a small statue of Our Lady inside. There is no statue here now, but I am sure it is the place.”
Rachel wandered into the entrance. “It’s way too shallow for a hermit’s cave, and the walls are completely blind, but it could have contained a shrine, I guess.”
“What now?” said David.
“We look for the entrance to the mine.”
“Have you seen the size of this mountain? It could be anywhere, and with all the vegetation, we could just as easily fall down it. It’s going to be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“Hélène said it was supposed to be nearby,” said Rachel defiantly.
“‘Supposed to be…’” said David sarcastically.
“Well we found this place, didn’t we? So let’s repeat the process – let’s spread out and see what we can find.”
They split up and continued their way down the steep hillside, slithering over the loose shale. Rachel found herself scrambling through some large bushes, and then managed to find a small path – little more than an animal track – which made the going slightly easier. After a few yards the path become more clearly defined, but was heading straight down towards the valley floor. She hesitated. At this rate, she would be at the bottom in 10 minutes, and it would be a very steep climb back up again. She was about to turn around, when an instinct – whether intuitive or sheer bloody mindedness, she was never sure – made her plunge on downwards. Another 50 yards, no more, she told herself.
The path led down the side of a large outcrop with a steep drop to one side and ended in a small plateau, where she stood looking around her. It wasn’t dissimilar, in some ways, to the grotto above, but there wasn’t much to see. She pushed through a clump of dense bushes sprouting up in front of the rock-face – and suddenly there it was. Hidden behind a small tree was the gaping entrance to a deep cave, some eight feet in diameter. She tiptoed closer, scarcely able to believe her luck. A rusty steel girder with a chain wrapped around it, just inside the entrance, gave the game away. This was most definitely a mine, and one that had been in use within the last 100 years or s
o. Further inside was a step down to a small ledge; below that a 20-foot vertical drop. In the dim light she could just make out a sizeable passageway leading off to the right.
She knew she should tell the others straight away, but she couldn’t resist the temptation. And besides, she had to make sure it was the real thing. Unslinging her climbing rope, she threw it around the steel girder and attached it back onto herself using a simple belay. Then, tentatively, she lowered herself down little by little inside the shaft.
Once at the bottom, she donned her head-torch and scoured the chamber. There were actually two passageways leading away from the foot of the shaft; the one she had seen from the entrance, and another, hidden from above, that led away to her left. She started walking down the right-hand tunnel, a wide shaft about four feet across and six feet high. It appeared to be some kind of main artery within the mine, for as she progressed further into the hillside, she noticed several smaller galleries leading off on either side. Eventually, however, it came to an abrupt end in a solid rock-face.
She looked at her watch – the others would be getting worried, and she certainly didn’t want to start exploring the smaller galleries on her own. She returned to the chamber at the mine entrance, and glanced at the second passageway. It was smaller, and appeared to have been more neatly cut, as if by small hand tools. To the untrained eye, at least, it looked older. She hesitated again, then quickly walked a short way along the shaft. It, too, seemed to be heading straight for the centre of the mountain, but after no more than 100 yards she came up against a large rock-fall. Disappointed, she turned and retraced her steps, only to stop, rooted to the spot. On the wall in front of her, thrown into sharp relief by the glare of her head-torch, was a symbol carved into the rock. It was a horse with two riders; the same image as on the Dalle des Chevaliers that Saunière had lifted more than a century before – the ancient seal of the Templars.
