And yet, when Felicity showed her classmates, the headmistress, and subsequently the counselor, they all looked at her with a mixture of pity and horror. No one was able to see her stigmata.
Felicity was devastated at first and sobbed until she choked with the violence of her rage and disappointment. How could God have betrayed her so? How was it possible that she saw the wounds of Christ so clearly on her own hands, but the others did not?
And in the darkest hour of her most agonizing night, Felicity understood. The people around her were mostly godless; they were certainly not gifted with the holy sight as she was. Of course they could not see a vision of something so sacred that it was bestowed upon her specifically by her Lord Jesus Christ. It was her own special gift, shared between her and her savior. And yet these common people were the ones she would have to reach if she was going to assume her place as the Lord’s special child. And it was in that realization that she knew what she would have to do.
She would have to help the ignorant masses to see the bleeding wounds left by sharpened iron nails so that there would be no further doubt from any of them.
Felicity began that night in the bathroom of her dormitory. She did not have access to any nails immediately, so instead she stole the blade from a razor out of the toiletry kit belonging to one of her roommates. The razor wasn’t optimum as it required some work and artistry to create the look of a hole left by a nail, but she made decent work of it. Unfortunately, she also fainted in the first attempt. This led to her expulsion from the school, followed by her hasty return to her family in Italy.
She had perfected her technique now, after more than ten years of practice, perfected all of it. When she appeared before the growing crowds who were coming to see her, the passion poured from her and she commanded the attention of all in the room without fail. When she spoke as herself, she was charismatic and convincing. Fanatical, yes, but it was hard to turn away from her if you were inclined to believe
that God was to be feared and that there was limited time to be saved. But it was when she spoke directly to the Holy Spirit that the drama began, making her infamous throughout Rome and causing lines to form at the door of the confraternity for hours before the meetings began. It was when she engaged the Holy Spirit that Felicity fell to the ground and writhed horribly, when the stigmata opened in her hands and began to bleed. At other times, the voice of Santa Felicita herself poured from her in a type of ecstatic possession.
There were even a number within the confraternity who referred to her as Saint Felicity, so convinced were they that this little prophetess was the true messenger of God.
Felicity, now expert in what it took to gain the attention of those who came to hear her, could manipulate a crowd within minutes. And she knew just how to make the ragged holes in her flesh so that the godless ones could finally understand how she suffered with her visions. For Felicity, this suffering was all-important. To be a prophetess for God was the task of a martyr, one that required agony and constant penitence. It was only through mortification of the flesh, total chastity, and an absolute commitment to the physical experience of suffering that one could be certain that the visions were pure.
People needed to understand just how much pain was required to hear God clearly.
Paris
present day
MAUREEN MET TAMMY at her hotel in Paris, a quiet little boutique inn that was Maureen’s home in the French capital. She loved this hotel, which existed in what was once an outbuilding on the eastern edge of the Louvre palace complex. It was charming, untouristed, and within walking distance to nearly anything that mattered to her.
With the picture windows of her hotel room open, the gargoyles appeared to be jumping from the neighboring medieval church and into the room. Each gargoyle had a unique personality—some fierce, some comical. All of them were her friends, and she felt strangely protected by them as she slept under their gaze. The alley that separated the buildings was so narrow that she could very nearly reach out and touch her Gothic watchdogs. This was Maureen’s favorite feature of the rooms on this side of the hotel.
She sat on the bed on the afternoon of her arrival, looking out the window at a springtime shower in Paris. She was waiting for Tammy, who was in the adjacent room, getting dressed.
When it rained, the gargoyles spit. Maureen marveled at the engineering of the medieval architects who created the gargoyles not as decoration but as drainage systems. The drainpipes flowed from the roof, with openings to expel the rain that ran through the gargoyle sculptures and ended in their gaping mouths. She had learned that
the word gargoyle, from the French, was related to gargouille, which meant “gullet.”
The knock at the door startled her, and she rose to let Tammy in.
Tammy was clutching a file folder in her hand as she strolled gracefully through the door. Her long black hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, and she was dressed casually today in jeans and a
white T-shirt that spelled out in black letters Heresy Begins with HER. The two women could not have been more different: Tamara Wisdom, the statuesque, olive-skinned beauty who was brash, outspoken, and vivacious; Maureen, the fair-skinned redhead who, while feisty in her Irish way, was more reserved in her expression. But spiritually, they were sisters of the highest order who shared a great love, both for their work and for each other.
“Do you want to talk about Bérenger first?” Tammy was never one to mince words or avoid conflict. “Because I have a perspective.”
“I’m sure you do, and I’m guessing it’s his.”
Tammy and Roland lived at the château with Bérenger, and they considered one another to be family. She was fiercely protective of Bérenger, as he had been extremely generous with her, financially and spiritually, throughout their friendship. It was rare when she didn’t defend him, which is exactly what Maureen was expecting from
her now.
“Stop it. He loves you. And only you. Totally, eternally, completely. You know that. God made you for each other, and you know that too. If he slept with Vittoria during the time when you two weren’t together, so what? He’s a man and a healthy one. It happens.”
Maureen considered this for a moment. “Yes, but . . . he loved me at the time he did this. If it had happened before we met, I could accept it easily. But he was already certain I was his soul mate, said repeatedly that I was the only woman he would ever want. Apparently he forgot to mention the exception about Italian supermodels.”
“You hurt him, Maureen, remember? You insisted on separation from him, and he was destroyed when you did.”
“Uh-huh. He was so destroyed that he fathered a child with Vittoria during those months apart as an act of consolation. Must be a European custom I am unfamiliar with.”
Tammy looked annoyed. “He made a mistake. And there’s a child as a result of that mistake, which isn’t the kid’s fault.”
Maureen shook her head, “No, of course it isn’t. If the baby is Bérenger’s, he needs to take responsibility for it and be a father to him.”
“And what are you going to do?”
Maureen shook her head. “It depends on what Bérenger does. He is denying that he ever slept with Vittoria at all, but I don’t believe it. I know him too well and I can tell when he is lying to me. I would rather he was honest and just owned up to his mistake. And incidentally, why would Vittoria lie about it?”
“Are you kidding? I can think of over a billion reasons why she would lie about it.”
Maureen shook her head. “She’s an heiress on both sides, and she has a career that pays well on top of that. Money isn’t her motivation. And if you had seen her . . . I can’t explain it, Tammy, but there was something in the way she looked at me when she delivered that envelope. It wasn’t evil, exactly, but it was the look of a woman who was very determined to accomplish a mission. And at that moment, hurting me was her only mission. Otherwise, why choose my birthday and a very public place to make her appear
ance?”
“That bitch,” Tammy snapped. “I’m so sorry you had to endure that. But you’re right, it was carefully calculated. Sounds like jealousy to me. Half the socialites in Europe despise you for snagging Bérenger out from under them. Don’t take it too personally.”
“I’m trying not to . . .” Maureen stopped midsentence when she noticed that a strange look had come over Tammy’s face. Without another word, Tammy dashed past Maureen and into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. Maureen could hear Tammy retching, suddenly and violently. Worried, Maureen knocked after a moment.
“You okay?”
She heard the water running and shortly thereafter Tammy emerged, face wet.
“What is it the old wives say when they tell their tales? That the sicker you are, the more likely it is to be a boy? Or is it a girl? I can never remember.”
Maureen screamed and threw her arms around her friend.
“Why didn’t you tell me!”
“The timing didn’t seem to be so great. I didn’t think the word baby was one you needed to hear at the moment. But . . . I am telling
you now.”
The two women embraced warmly as Maureen showered Tammy with questions, which she answered patiently. Yes, she and Roland were extremely happy even though the pregnancy was unplanned and unexpected. Yes, Bérenger knew and he had been instructed not to say a word to Maureen, which was killing him, but Tammy had wanted to tell her in person. And yes, Tammy felt this sick pretty much all the time but hoped that once she entered her second trimester, she would feel better.
And yes, they had a wedding to plan for the early summer, before Tammy got too big to wear a suitably fabulous dress.
Maureen left Tammy in the hotel to nap and walked up the Rue de Rivoli in the rain. She passed the Louvre and the souvenir shops on her way toward the hallowed, book-filled halls of Galignani. The first English-speaking bookstore established on the Continent, in 1801, Galignani had been Maureen’s literary addiction since her first visit to Paris as a teenager. Here she was able to find treasure within pages devoted to great European characters throughout history, often coming across rare jewels for research that were unavailable to her in American bookstores.
As she approached Galignani, Maureen pulled up short with a little, involuntary squeal. There in the window of the most elegant English-speaking bookstore in continental Europe was the British edition of her latest book, The Time Returns. Her own novel was on a shelf adjacent to an annotated version of The Collected Works of Alexandre Dumas, and just below Emily Brontë’s romantic masterpiece, Wuthering Heights. Hoping that the rain would mask her unexpected tears, she stood before the window for another minute to take it all in. To be on a shelf with Dumas and Brontë in this place . . . well, it was more than she could ask for, the perfect realization of her dream to become an author since she won her first writing competition as a child. Dumas was one of her literary heroes; Maureen had cut her teeth on the adventures of D’Artagnan and the Musketeers, the Count of Monte Cristo, and the unfortunate Man in the Iron Mask. And Emily Brontë had made her weep for hours at a time, as she had so many young women since the publication of her classic romance. Maureen had even memorized pieces of the heart-wrenching story of Heathcliff and Cathy, wondering if that kind of undying and epic passion could ever really exist in the modern world we live in.
He shall never know how I love him . . . because he’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same. . . . He’s always, always in my mind—not as a pleasure . . . but as my own being. . . . Haunt me, drive me mad. . . . Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! . . . I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!
So beautiful, yet so heartbreaking. Why was love so often accompanied by pain? Why were the tragic romances the ones that we remembered and cherished above all others? It was the star-crossed who resonated somewhere in the deepest places of our spirit.
Maureen had the briefest vision then of Bérenger Sinclair’s aristocratic face, accompanied by the fleeting knowledge of something more, something about the past and a promise, something sacred and eternal.
Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same . . .
“Yes, they are,” she whispered to herself. That was the one thing of which she was certain. No matter what Bérenger may have done in the past, she knew with all her heart and soul that he loved her and that she loved him. This would be her challenge, and she knew it: could she allow love to matter above and beyond the challenges that they were going to face in the spotlight of this new scandal?
She closed her umbrella and turned her own face up to the sky, allowing the light rain to come down on her for a moment. There were times in our lives when we simply needed to surrender to the power of something that is greater than our limited humanity. God had a plan, and he was kind enough in his love and grace to give Maureen signs along the way that she was on the right track. Today was one of those days, and this was one of those moments that kept her going when faith in many things still so unknown and unknowable was all she had.
“Thank you,” she whispered up to the sky, as a ray of sun broke through the clouds. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but it appeared to specifically illuminate the cover of her book about love, where it sat in the window on a Parisian street.
Château des Pommes Bleues
Arques, France
present day
THE SPEAR OF DESTINY.
It was the legendary weapon of Longinus the Centurion, used to pierce the side of the crucified Christ. Bérenger Sinclair had devoted a portion of his library to this artifact, as it had obsessed him since he was a teenager. He possessed every book that had ever been written about it in multiple languages, had participated in research teams to authenticate items that claimed to be authentic pieces of the spear, and even had multiple replicas created and displayed.
It was one of the greatest legends in Christian history, and now he had a chance to go directly to the source to find the truth. Destino could tell him what had happened to the real Spear of Destiny. But would he divulge such a secret after all this time?
The spear had become an object of questing through history, in the same category as the Holy Grail and the Ark of the Covenant, only
the spear was believed to have extreme powers of negative influence; some even said that it was possessed by an evil demon. Evil or not, it was coveted by military leaders who believed that ownership of the weapon would bring them victory in their battles. Legend claimed that Charlemagne had used the spear as his secret talisman to win more than forty battles, until the greatest of all European emperors dropped the spear on the battlefield during his forty-eighth skirmish. It was lost to him underfoot in the melee. It was a fatal loss, as Charlemagne died in that same battle. His fate enhanced the legendary status of the great artifact. It was now understood that possession of the Spear of Destiny could lead to unlimited victory, even conquest of the world. But to lose it would prove fatal to the man who allowed it to slip through his hands.
Most famously, Adolf Hitler had coveted the spear and had been committed to obtaining it for the Nazis. Hitler told a story about viewing the artifact for the first time while visiting the Hofburg Imperial Palace in Austria. He was literally entranced by it, feeling as if he were losing consciousness as the power of the spear reached out to him. Hitler had been quoted as saying, “I felt as though I myself had held it before in some earlier century of history. That I myself had once claimed it as my talisman of power and held the destiny of the world in my hands.”
Following that experience, Adolf Hitler had become obsessed with the Spear of Destiny. He believed that possession of it was necessary for him to succeed in his goals of domination. Some said that acquiring the spear was his single greatest personal fixation. Immediately after bringing Austria under Nazi control in 1938, Hitler demanded that the spear be brought to him in Nuremberg. As the Allies gained ground in Europe,
he had the spear moved into an underground bunker built specifically to protect it and the rest of his collection of artifacts. In 1945, American forces took control of the bunker and confiscated the Spear of Destiny. Within two hours, Adolf Hitler was dead.
The American military leader of the time General George Patton became convinced that the power of the spear was real, and he studied it in depth, tracing its history and telling its tales. He even wrote poetry about it. But the Spear of Destiny was eventually returned with the rest of the Hofburg collection to the museum in Austria, where it remained.
Bérenger Sinclair had been part of a research team in Vienna that worked to evaluate the age and authenticity of the Spear of Destiny in the Hofburg collection a decade earlier. That research had been financed by Vittoria Buondelmonti’s mother, the Baroness von Hapsburg, who had also secured Bérenger’s participation on the team alongside her daughter. It was where they first met; in fact Bérenger and Vittoria had become quite close during that summer in Austria. Despite the twenty-year age difference between the young beauty and the Scottish oil billionaire, Vittoria’s family was more than eager to broker a wedding between the two. It was a match made in secret society heaven, one which would combine the wealthiest and most pristine bloodlines—and help to contain some of the deepest held secrets—in Europe. Further, there was real compatibility between Bérenger and Vittoria, at least on the surface. She was deeply immersed in the research and they shared a passion for religious artifacts and their potential application to family histories.
There had been high drama around the results of the scientific testing, as it was ultimately determined that the Hofburg spear was not old enough to be the authentic weapon once wielded by Longinus the Centurion. The metal could not have been forged prior to the seventh century. No one was more bitterly disappointed than the baroness herself, who held it as a point of honor that the Hapsburgs had been in possession of this spear for hundreds of years. Bérenger remembered that Vittoria had been emotional about the results as well; she had wept when it was determined that the Hofburg spear was a fake at worst, a replica at best.
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