Thus was his life summarised for the Queen Mother in five easy sentences. Chavigny made the best of it and bowed his head even lower. His poems were clumsy?
But the Queen Mother had already turned away from him and returned to her son’s bedside. ‘You heard what Ambroise Paré proposes,’ she said. ‘He means to cut my son’s head open.’
‘This is often done in battle, madame, when there is fluid in the brain. But if I may, it will do nothing to prevent the course of this disease.’
She passed a hand over her rounded face, over those bulging eyes. She was not a beautiful woman and yet she was graceful in her gestures and this affected an image of beauty. ‘I think I read it in one of your quatrains.’ She looked at him with a sudden frailty. ‘The first son of the widow of an unhappy marriage . . . before the age of eighteen will die. Tell me, were you speaking of my son, the king? Tell me plainly.’ She cried suddenly, ‘Do not spare me!’
Nostradamus shook his head and made a squint, for his eyes were bad. ‘The future is not set like . . . like quince jam, your majesty. I only see one possible outcome out of many alternatives. Like a garden where there are many divergent paths . . .’
She turned away, thoughtful. It was long before she spoke again, and when she did, her words were quiet. ‘When my son dies, France will hang in the balance. He fell to the charms of the Catholic Guises and married that woman, but the Cardinal de Lorraine, her uncle, uses black magic to kill him because he wants the throne. I know this because Cosimo Ruggieri, my own sorcerer, has turned against me. He is in possession of a copy of the book of Pope Honorius, which he brought with him out of Florence.’ She looked at Nostradamus with a significant eye. ‘Surely you must know what this means?’
Nostradamus faltered. He put a hand to his chest absently, as if such a thought had seized his heart and made it pause. ‘The grimoire, written by that black pope, the pope who made a pact with the Devil?’
‘Yes. I need not tell you that there is no hope for my son. But Francis must not die before de Montmorency arrives, do you hear me? Did you not see how keen the Guises are to put me in a dungeon? It was I, you see, who alerted de Montmorency of my son’s condition and of his Protestant nephew’s imprisonment.
When he arrives to fetch him from the dungeon,’ she said, her eyes shining, ‘all will be put to rights. That is why I pray that you delay my son’s dying as long as possible . . . Use the magic in the grimoire of King Solomon to counteract the poison of Pope Honorius.’
Chavigny’s master was long quiet. ‘If I am successful in using white magic against black it will only work for a time. The king will suffer, your majesty: terrible headaches; vomiting; fevers; diarrhoea; convulsions – all of these will visit him before the madness takes him. It is a horrible thing to behold. Not even the plague makes a man suffer more.’
She observed his words. ‘And yet, he is a king,’ she said, looking at Nostradamus a little too dispassionately, ‘and kings are born to suffer, is this not so? Do what you can to keep him alive.’ She considered her words and nodded. ‘Tonight we celebrate his improving health. After all, he is sitting up and is eating a bowl of gruel . . .’ She looked about her as if she had misplaced something of herself in this conversation. ‘Tonight, Master Nostradamus, you must use all your powers and I pray that your magic works.’ She left the royal chamber in a rustle of black silk.
Nostradamus rolled up his sleeves. He put a hand to the king’s brow.
‘What will you do?’
The old man squinted to look at Chavigny. ‘Do?’
‘Will you prolong the king’s agony with magic?’
He shook his head. ‘It is not always successful, and we must retire to our chamber to consult the books.’
Later, in the apartment provided for them, Nostradamus sat down, impassive, anxious. Chavigny had never seen him like this.
‘What was that book the Queen Mother mentioned, master?’
Nostradamus looked up from his thoughts. ‘What? Oh, yes, that book. It is the most infamous of all grimoires. Now, be quiet and unpack those bags. Perhaps you can prevent yourself from disturbing my thoughts.’
Chastened, Chavigny went to the great trunk and took from it firstly the great brass astrolabe by which one could calculate the position of celestial bodies, some charts, and those Arabian instruments used for mathematical calculations, which he lay carefully one beside the other on a table. There was a great collection of simples in small bottles that were stoppered with wax, as well as glass ampoules for alchemical experiments, and his master had not forgotten his mirouer ardent, nor that other treasure he never spoke of, which Chavigny knew lived inside a red velvet bag encased in a box of polished wood.
‘How long have you been with me now, Chavigny?’ his master said.
‘Ten years or thereabouts,’ Chavigny answered.
‘How many hurdles did Dorat place in your way, when you said you wanted to be my pupil?’
‘It took me near a year to convince him and then he gave me no letters of introduction.’
‘That’s right, and you made the two-month journey south to my home and arrived empty-handed at my door. And what did I tell you then?’
‘That if I intended to become a student of the mystic arts, I would have to be prepared to do those tasks you set me.’
Nostradamus nodded.
‘But in all this time you have set me no tasks and there has been no instruction!’
‘Really?’ Nostradamus raised one bushy brow. ‘No tasks and no instructions? Well, you have not been very attentive, then. Bring me that box.’
Nostradamus opened it and took out the velvet pouch; what lay inside it looked ancient. ‘When I was given this I was sworn to never divulge what I saw except to an acolyte who would one day replace me. Circumstances have now precipitated what should not have come so soon. And so, my dear Chavigny, I must ask you before all else, to take an oath.’
Chavigny, who had been listening without taking a breath, gasped. This was the moment he had been waiting for! But he told himself not to be hasty. The wrong answer could cost him his privilege.
‘Perhaps I’m not ready. Perhaps I am, as you have said, too vain and unwise . . .’
Nostradamus raised a brow and looked at him serenely. ‘Come now, Jean, will you have me believe that after ten years you are not ready for what I am offering to share with you? Will you not swear the oath to be my loyal student?’
Chavigny felt a momentary confusion, unsure if he was swearing an oath of silence or one of loyalty, and there was a very fine but important distinction. ‘What exactly am I swearing I will do?’
‘Listen to me, I don’t have time now to go into all of it with you except to say that you will learn everything as we go along. Right now I need you to swear to me that you will not read it. I have not shown it to any man since I myself received it.’
A realisation struck Chavigny and he looked down a moment. Of course, he understood now. Nostradamus did indeed live in a forest of isolation, unsure of whom he could trust, looking around every corner. Chavigny would now be the only other living soul to know some of his innermost secrets. His heart swelled and he was about to say what this moment meant to him when the impulse was forestalled by his master’s next words, which were short and sharp.
‘Will you have me waiting all night?’ His grey eyes were full of anxious glints as he prompted, ‘Well?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Chavigny blurted out, ‘I swear on my life not to read it.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now listen carefully. This book I hold in my hands once belonged to the secret library of a great man, a doctor and alchemist named Scaliger. Did you know that your old teacher Dorat and I studied together under Scaliger? I lived with Scaliger at Agen and we worked side by side to vanquish the plague. He taught me all he knew and initiated me into the secrets of the Rose Cross and after that allowed me to enter into his secret library, which was hidden by panelled walls. Those were happy days, sitting in the dark
with a lighted candle and the world’s thoughts in my hands. When he considered that I was ready he showed me this. Not long after that, his niece, who was also my first wife, died of the plague, as did all our children.’ He sighed. ‘The people rose up against me because I was not able to save my own family, you see? They accused me of sorcery and without their protection the Inquisition came knocking at Scaliger’s door. That is why we pretended to quarrel publicly, so that he and his family would not suffer through our friendship. One stormy night he packed a wagon full of his books for me, handed me this treasure and wished me well. I left Agen and later settled in Salon, but the Inquisition has long arms and soon caught up with me. I was forced to burn most of the books one terrible night to save my new family from the Dominican priests.’
‘And this?’
‘This—’ he caressed it, ‘—belonged to the Cathars. They had safeguarded it from the Church for many years in the caves of Lombrives. Before that it belonged to Mary Magdalene, Saint John’s sister and the guardian of his Apocalypse. Days before the pope’s men and the king’s imperial guard blocked up every exit from the caves – condemning countless men, women and children to a slow and agonising death – an unknown man slipped out carrying this. I don’t know how the book fell into the hands of the Rosicrucians who were the followers of Saint John, but through them it came into the possession of Scaliger. It has passed through many hands and must do so again. You see, if Cosimo Ruggieri has a copy of the book of Pope Honorius, there is no telling what he will do if this book falls into his hands.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘It is dangerous, Chavigny. That is why I have carried it with me all these years. Why I cannot trust to leave it in any place.’ Tears welled in his eyes. ‘I did not know whom I could trust . . . this is a heavy burden I have carried, Chavigny. But now, I can do nothing else. I must trust you. And you will take it from here.’
‘I?’
‘Yes, you! One day you will understand why this was your destiny. I have seen the future in the mirror. I have seen that we will be together again. In those far-off days you will still be as stubborn as you are now, you will still think yourself a poet and a writer and you will yet need my guidance.’
‘You have seen my future?’
‘Not now, Chavigny, you must leave. The Queen Mother will arrange it. I cannot go. I’m too old. Who knows what this night will bring? The mirror showed me nothing of it. You saw the township of Blois on the way here – Protestant reformers gathering with weapons. The guards had to beat them off with staves to let us pass. The Duke of Guise has arrested the Protestant Conde and his supporters are not merry about it. That Catholic Cosimo Ruggieri has turned against the Queen Mother because of her leanings for the Protestants. He has sided with the Cardinal of Lorraine, a necromancer who uses the Church for his own ends. Should they win out, I will be jailed for my loyalty to her and they will find the book. My dear Chavigny, I fear we are headed for a bloodbath!’
‘What will happen if they find the book?’
‘Pope Honorius had the keys or formulas which allowed him to summon all the demons one by one, for whatever purpose. But there was one key missing in his grimoire. If that key, which is contained in this book that once belonged to the Cathars, is united with the knowledge in the book of Pope Honorius, Ruggieri and the Catholic Cardinal of Lorraine will be able to bring about the end of the world – they will cause the Apocalypse that Saint John foretold, ahead of time.’
At that moment a bolt of lightning sent a silver vein across the night sky and lit the room with incandescence. Chavigny braced himself for what would come, since it seemed to him that Heaven itself had underscored his master’s words.
‘I am afraid,’ Chavigny told him, truthfully. ‘Where will I take it?’
‘Go to the descendants of Raymond de Parella. Centuries ago this family owned Montsegur, the fortress of the Cathars, now they have become the lords of Perillos, in Roussillon. They are the only ones who can be trusted. They will hide it and I will secret the knowledge of it in one of my quatrains – it will say that the treasure can be found with the twin infants from the illustrious and ancient line of a warrior monk.’
‘Twin infants?’
‘The townships of Perillos and Opoul.’
‘And the ancient line of a warrior monk?’
‘Templars! Hurry – to Perillos!’
36
One Mystery Reveals Another
‘The facts that I am about to reveal to you are incredible!’ Emile Gaboriau, The Lerouge Case
Rennes-le-Château, 1938
‘We need you to be honest with us, Madame Dénarnaud. The life of a friend might just depend on it – and we’re running out of time!’
She raised her brows but said nothing. She seemed to find his words amusing.
‘Saunière found it, didn’t he?’ Rahn pressed. ‘That’s what those antiquarian booksellers from London were looking for when they came here to search his library after he died. But you made certain that it wasn’t there!’
‘Found what?’
‘You tell us.’
‘Me? You give me too much importance, monsieur, I was just a housekeeper.’
Eva cut in: ‘But you were more than a housekeeper, madame! You inherited everything . . . perhaps it is more accurate to call you an accomplice?’
The old face changed, almost imperceptibly – it became hard, cunning. ‘Accomplice to what?’
‘Rituals,’ Rahn said.
‘What rituals?’
‘Rituals of black magic, right here beneath the church, in the crypt of Marie de Blanchefort.’
She laughed then, a guttural laugh. ‘You have been reading too many mystery novels!’
‘You warned me about ravens and then we find one hanging in the church this morning. Did you do it?’ Rahn said.
‘Did I hang the raven from the crucifix? Of course not!’
‘But you were in the church last night – the abbé saw you,’ Eva remarked.
‘Are you asking me who tried to kill you? Why don’t you go look for him – you will find that he’s long gone, with whatever you told him tucked away in his heart!’
‘What?’ Rahn said.
‘Monsieur Rahn, for a lover of mysteries you’ve not done well in figuring out this plot, have you? You’ve played right into that priest’s hands. I suppose his blushing did it. He looks like such an innocent – those fair eyes! But he is an innocent with the heart of a devil.’
‘What do you mean?’ Rahn said.
The old woman looked at him with a smug expression that annoyed him. ‘Well, who do you think locked the hatch leading to the crypt last night? I suppose he told you I did it, didn’t he? The truth is, if I hadn’t unlocked the door to the sacristy you wouldn’t be here now. He did not know about that door, you see. And so, what did you tell him? Did you show him something you had found perhaps? Was it that list of names you mentioned?’
Rahn blinked.
Madame Dénarnaud gestured to a seat and said with a sudden affectation of motherly concern, ‘Sit down, my dear, you look pale. I think it’s time I told you some things, and you are free to do whatever you want with them.’ She composed herself and began: ‘It all started, in many ways, with Marie de Nègre d’Ables, Dame d’Hautpoul, Marquise de Blanchefort. She was the last in her line and the last to live in the castle of the Hautpouls, the one that is deserted now and fallen to ruin on the hill in this village. On the eve of her death, she called for her confessor. Quite naturally, he was the priest of Rennes-le-Château, the Abbé Antoine Bigou. I believe he is on your list?’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Never mind, just listen,’ she said to him, ignoring Eva.
Eva watched them from her seat opposite with an aloof detachment, apparently unperturbed by the other woman’s rudeness.
‘On her deathbed,’ the woman continued, ‘Madame Blanchefort gave Abbé Bigou something that had been in her husband’s family for
many years. Something that came into her husband’s possession through the lords of Perillos – at least that’s what Saunière managed to find out.’
‘The lords of Perillos?’
‘No one knows how the house of Perillos came to have the treasure, but the house of Perillos and the house of Blanchefort have had close ties since the Crusade against the Cathars.
The Blancheforts were a Cathar family with Templar affiliations, and the lords of Perillos were connected to the Cathars through Raymond de Parella, the master of Montsegur. They were united, if not by blood, by loyalty. So it was natural that when the Perillos family became diminished the treasure passed into the hands of the Blancheforts for safekeeping. Knowledge of it and information about its whereabouts eventually reached François d’Hautpoul when he took for himself the lands and the titles of the lords of Blanchefort. François then married a nineteen-year-old orphan, Marie de Nègre. On his deathbed he bequeathed knowledge of the whereabouts of the hidden treasure to Marie, and on her deathbed, having no male heirs and fearing instability in the land, she in turn passed the information to the only man she could trust – her priest.’
‘You say there were no heirs?’ Eva said coldly.
The woman glanced sharply at Eva. ‘I said no male heirs.’
‘So there were female heirs?’
That glance was full of contempt. ‘Yes, but perhaps she did not consider them suitable. Women were just chattels, to be disposed of at will, they held no power in society and were quite defenceless. This information was a perilous thing, after all,’ she said, and smiled at her little pun. ‘Marie then died. Do you know the date?’
Rahn nodded. ‘The seventeenth of January 1781.’
The Sixth Key Page 27
