by Steve Berry
Catholics venerated the Old Testament. But the God of the Old Testament was not the God of Good, or the God of Light. Instead, He was ignorant, cruel, bloodthirsty, and unjust. The God of Evil, of Darkness. That contradiction could not be ignored.
Papists attached great value to material things. Look at their churches and cathedrals. Cardinals, bishops, priests, and popes had always lived in great luxury. They knew no other god but money and had a purse where their hearts should be. Eight hundred years ago they’d been a laughingstock. Even more so today, considering the scandals that had rocked the priesthood worldwide. Matthew 6:24 was correct. No man can serve two masters, for either he will hate one and love the other, or else he will hold to one and despise the other.
Catholics also idolized saints and venerated the cross. Matthew again said it best. Watch out for the false prophets who come to you in the guise of lambs, when within lurk voracious wolves. Only their fruit will tell them apart.
Enduring a physical life on this Satan-run earth was truly hell. Creating another life, having a child, a son or daughter who would have to do the same, seemed nothing short of cruel. Why doom an innocent to such unhappiness? As was written long ago, and as she preached to the believers—Be chaste of body. For men and women observing the vow and way of life of this sect are in no way soiled by the corruption of debauchery. Whence, if any of them, man or woman, happens to be fouled by fornication, if convicted by two or three witnesses, he forthwith either is ejected from their group or, if he repents, is re-consoled by the imposition of their hands, and a heavy penitential burden is placed upon him as amends for sin.
A tempered mercy for weak souls.
She was not married, nor had she ever birthed a child. Many of her believers had likewise come to exercise great restraint when it came to children. Sex was tolerated, so long as it did not result in a pregnancy. Thankfully, science now provided many ways to avoid that result. Some good. Some horrible. Eight hundred years ago, only celibacy was one hundred percent effective.
She loved all of her believers. No people had ever been more humble. None more assiduous in prayer. More constant under persecution. None made more insistent attempts to lead a good life. The gospels were their only guide. Their celibacy and austerities those of a monastic ideal. Their criticism of the orthodox clergy no more severe today, or back then, than that of other puritans and reformers.
Yet they alone had been targeted for extinction.
Her religion was just as old as Catholicism, tracing back to the prophet Mani, who lived in Persia during the 3rd century. Those teachings spread from Turkey, to Bulgaria, into Italy, and later to Spain and France. She’d spent the better part of her life studying every aspect of Catharism. Sadly, little firsthand information still existed since the papists, while exterminating every believer they could find, also destroyed every text.
That was why the Book of Hours was so important.
It led to The Truth.
No doubt existed in her mind that hell was right here on earth. The evil God filled every moment of life with pain. Satan worked to confine all souls to an earthly prison. But the good God imbued people with knowledge of heaven and a divine spark that provided the ability to resist Satan and earn a way into His eternal realm. When a believer died without having experienced the Consolamentum, the unsaved released soul was immediately attacked by the physical world. Desperate to escape that suffering, the soul would attach to whatever host, or lodging of clay, that could be found. Either human or animal. No matter. Being reborn meant being given a chance to live again. Hopefully better. To finally get it right. To lead the life the good God intended and experience the Consolamentum, earning the right to at last be released and finally go home to heaven. Her job, as Perfecti, was to make that joy happen. The old woman she’d baptized last night may have already found the light, her cycle of pain ended.
Or at least she hoped so.
Eventually, her time to die would come too. And she would welcome her eternal reward. Provided she remained observant, benevolent, righteous, and kept thinking like a person surrounded by enemies.
And she was.
What better way to end her cycle of life in this physical world than return to the Cathars that which was most precious?
The Truth.
No better way at all.
Her soup seemed ready to eat. Little steam was now condensing. She lifted the spoon.
How could she accomplish such a lofty goal?
The answer seemed to be in prayer.
Where she hoped the God of Good would provide a way.
Chapter 13
Cassiopeia ended the call to her corporate headquarters. There’d been no change in the legal situation. She’d told Beláncourt yesterday afternoon, right before she boarded his jet and returned to Givors, that he had twenty-four hours to end his litigious attack. Otherwise, there would be no more discussions between them and she would fight whatever battle he brought her way. In the car, on the drive away from Montségur, he’d tossed out a compromise. If you will not sell, would you consider allowing me to examine the book, under your supervision, and take some photos?
A compromise.
But she’d made it clear again that he would have to end the legal blackmail before she would even consider such a move.
It was nearing eleven a.m. and she’d spent three hours online researching the Cathars and any supposed “treasure.” Everything she’d found involved either gold, silver, the Holy Grail, or some other absurd, esoteric conclusion. Nothing realistic, and Beláncourt had refused to tell her more about what he considered the treasure to be, only that the book she’d found was a path to it. Despite his arrogance and hostility, she was intrigued by the man. But, like Cotton always said, don’t run in until you know the lay of the land.
The Book of Hours lay on the desk before her.
Thousands of similar books had been produced between the 13th and 18th centuries, many of which survived in libraries and museums. In fact, more books of hours were made than any other type. The bestseller of its day. No two were exactly alike, although they all shared one group of devotions. A set of prayers, in eight sections, meant to be said at regular intervals throughout a twenty-four-hour day. The practice of praying at multiple times came from the Divine Office, a liturgy chanted in monasteries where monks gathered for prayer on a strict daily schedule. The Book of Hours simply allowed the general public to partake of those practices. Some of the greatest paintings of the late Middle Ages and early Renaissance were not on church or museum walls. Instead, they shined forth from the pages of books like the one before her. But what made this one so special?
While reading the various online articles about the Cathars, one name kept appearing.
Simone Forte.
She was currently involved with an archeological dig near Carcassonne. Forte held a doctorate and taught medieval religion at the Université de Toulouse. When the professor’s name was Googled the hits showed that she was widely regarded as one of the leading authorities on Catharism. There were numerous academic papers available. A check of the university’s website provided an email address and contact number. A quick look on Amazon revealed that Simone Forte had written three books, which were all available in e-format. So she downloaded them. Two were geared for a more learned audience. The third seemed for the masses. The Cathar Tragedy. Published twelve years ago. Not a long volume. Only one hundred thirty-one pages. She scrolled through it on the screen and noticed the table of contents. Its five sections dealt with the people, places, and events of the Cathars. She was about to skim through and read a little when she came to the dedication page.
To my husband, Roland Beláncourt,
who makes the present wonderful
and provides the support needed to search the past.
She opened a new window on the laptop and immediately typed Roland Beláncourt and Simone Forte into the search engine.
Only four hits emerged.
Strange, given
Beláncourt’s public persona, but consistent with his jealous guarding of his privacy. During her previous search of only his name a few days ago, nothing had been mentioned except generic references to a former wife.
She opened all four sites.
Three seemed a rehash of the fourth, which she read in its entirety.
All two paragraphs of it.
Forte and Beláncourt had been married for eleven years, the union annulled by the Archbishop of Toulouse ten years ago. There’d been no children. Interesting an annulment instead of divorce. But perhaps Beláncourt, a devout Catholic, as the article noted, had not wanted to risk excommunication, since divorce was still frowned upon by the Church. A snide comment alluded to the fact that annulments were traditionally granted for only unconsummated unions, but they were also available to the wealthiest Catholics who could afford to pay the price of permission.
She’d originally intended on e-mailing Professor Forte seeing if the woman might be interested in helping her with the Book of Hours. Now, talking to the woman no longer seemed optional. She reached for the cell phone and tapped in the number for the university. Her call was routed to the Humanities Department and Forte’s office. Incredibly, someone was there, given it was a Sunday, and a young research assistant was most helpful, explaining that the professor was not on campus today, nor would she be for the next week.
“She’s in Carcassonne. At the Hôtel de la Cité.”
Chapter 14
The Aéroport de Carcassonne sat west of town, a bustling hub with flights due in today, Cassiopeia noticed, from Ireland, England, Scotland, and several cities in France. She’d ended the call to Simone Forte’s office and immediately chartered a plane out of Lyon that flew her three hundred kilometers south in less than two hours. By two p.m. she was on the ground and headed into the city thanks to a rental car agency.
The Cité de Carcassonne was one of the last remaining walled cities left in the world, perched where the River Aude made a sharp right turn toward the sea. Its ramparts were composed of two concentric walls with a widow’s walk atop, protected by merlons and battlements, all flanked by defensive towers. Its Castle of the Counts, located inside the walls, came reinforced with a deep moat, becoming a citadel within a citadel.
The town’s medieval feel had been carefully preserved with narrow winding streets, half-timbered façades, and small open squares that spread out from once active wells. A lower town outside the walls bowed to modernity, but it was the old world within, home to about seven hundred, that drew tens of thousands each year to visit. A World Heritage site. She smiled at that designation knowing the trouble Cotton had caused at several of those around the globe. She wondered what he was doing. She should call him. But first things first. She needed to speak with Simone Forte.
The Hôtel de la Cité carried the reputation as the best in town. It occupied the old neo-Gothic bishop’s palace, adjacent to the basilica, offering five-star accommodations. She’d stayed there twice. Inside, she learned that the professor was on the other side of town. Which would not be a long journey given the whole place was an irregular oval, curved at the north, pointed at the south, only five hundred meters long and about half that wide.
She left the hotel and navigated the cobbled streets.
The town dated back to the first century, when it was a remote Roman settlement. Charlemagne invaded seven hundred years later and claimed control. It was captured during the Albigensian Crusade by Simon de Montfort, who eventually erected the outer walls and provided its iconic appearance. During the 19th century, her hero, Eugène Viollet-le-Duc, one of the founders of historic conservation, undertook a massive restoration project. Her master’s thesis had been on Viollet-le-Duc, focusing on his preservation of medieval architecture. That the city had once been a hotbed for the heretics had not been germane to her studies then.
But it was today.
Tourists were everywhere. A busy Sunday. The shops, many tucked into the alcoves that once sold necessities, now peddled souvenirs. She found her destination near the north wall. A red banner, attached to the front wall above an awning, read in gold letters Musée de l’inquisiton. A mannequin, dressed in medieval garb, added more camp to the local museum of torture.
She stepped inside and introduced herself, saying she would like to speak with Simone Forte. The young man excused himself and disappeared behind a curtain that guarded the start of the exhibits. A few moments later a slim woman, maybe in her late forties, early fifties, with beautiful green eyes and a face that bore few marks of life, appeared. Her blonde hair was drawn tight into a bun and a pair of bifocals sat perched on the tip of her nose. She wore an expensive black pantsuit with a crisp white blouse. Cassiopeia recognized the face from the photo in the books and introduced herself.
The older woman shook her offered hand with a firm grip.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle Vitt. I’ve admired your restoration project for many years.”
She was surprised that the connection had been made. “I appreciate you noticing. You should come see it some time.”
“I would love that.”
The soft voice was like honey and carried an even tone, not uncommon for academics. But it also signaled all business.
“Is there a place where we could speak in private?” she asked. “I’ve come to show you something.”
“Now that’s rather mysterious. But, yes, we can talk in the back. I’ve been utilizing a room here as my field lab. I’m working with some archeologists who are digging not far from here. The owner of this museum is a friend and offered the space.”
She followed the woman into the museum.
A few visitors roamed inside.
“Despite the tourist flavor,” Forte said, “the exhibits are reasonably authentic. The dioramas are quite realistic, while the mannequins, God bless them, leave a bit to be desired.”
The place was reminiscent of a wax museum, but with added macabre touches like what appeared to be dried blood on the floor in one room and some entrails in another. Deeper in she saw a Judas chair made of nails which, a sign noted, was used primarily on witches. A hell cage hung from the ceiling, inside of which prisoners were once left naked in the elements until they died. A stretching ladder and breaking wheel, one to dislocate the limbs, the other to snap bones, sent a chill through her. In a long-vaulted gallery were axes, chastity belts, and old maniacal-looking medical instruments. At its far end, inside a low archway, hung an oak door.
“Here we are,” Forte said, inserting a skeleton key.
The room beyond was square with a window to the outside. After the dim light of the museum, it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the sunlight. A roughhewn rectangular table filled the space, upon which lay a slab of rock.
“My workshop,” she said.
She admired the stone on the table. “Is this Cathar?”
The professor nodded. “I believe so. The carving was found at a dig near here.”
The slab was about a meter long and half that wide. Upon its face was the clear hewn image of a dove, carved all the way through.
“It may have come from Montségur,” Forte said. “We know from other accounts that the site was looted after the Cathars surrendered and the citadel was razed. This particular style is common in that region. The dove was the Cathars’ most powerful symbol.”
Cassiopeia found her phone and brought up several images of the Book of Hours that she’d taken earlier. Some of the cover, some inside, a few of the casket itself. “I have something else that may be Cathar. This was found at my construction site six days ago.”
She handed over the phone.
Forte studied each one with close scrutiny, then asked, “How many pages are in the book?”
“Seventy-three, all illustrated.”
Using two fingers, Forte enlarged the images to fill the phone’s screen and studied them again. Cassiopeia watched the other woman carefully, noting how she perused each with a careful examination.
Forte handed the phone back. “This is quite a find.”
“In what way?”
“Where is the book?”
Not an answer to her question. “Safe at my estate. We had a robbery attempt, and a private collector is pressuring me to either sell the book to him or allow him to examine it.”
“May I inquire who?”
“Your ex-husband.”
A look of shock filled Forte’s face. “Roland?”
She nodded. “It’s another reason why I’m here. Not only are you a recognized expert, but you also know him. I was hoping you might be able to tell me his real interest. He says it’s a conduit to a Cathar treasure, of some sort. The Path to Light.”
“You’ve spoken to Roland?”
“Twice.”
Forte stepped around to the far side of the table, opposite from her. The stone slab, with the dove, lay between them.
“Mademoiselle Vitt—”
“Cassiopeia. Please.”
“Then I’m Simone.”
She nodded in acceptance of the courtesy.
“My ex-husband is a most complex man. He and I have had little contact for the past decade. We said all there was to say when our marriage ended.”
“Interesting how a marriage that lasted for eleven years could be annulled.”
“Yes, it is. But the explanation is intensely personal and has nothing to do with you or your book.”
She accepted the rebuke with grace. She’d pushed to see how far she might be able to go, which had not been much. “I apologize. But I’m in investigatory mode, which makes me a bit nosey at times.”
“Quite understandable. And if you’ve engaged Roland twice, then you are aware of the frustration he can pose.”
