Holy Blood, Holy Grail

by Baigent, Michael

  As far as we know, M. Poher never commented, one way or the other, on his alleged connections with the Prieuré de Sion and/or the Merovingian bloodline. In the genealogies of the "Prieuré documents," however, there is mention of Arnaud, count of Poher, who, sometime between 894 and 896, intermarried with the Plantard family—the direct descendants supposedly of Dagobert II. Arnaud de Poher’s grandson, Alain, became duke of Brittany in 937. Whether or not M. Poher acknowledges Sion, it would thus seem clear that Sion acknowledges him—as being, at very least, of Merovingian descent.

  THE LOST KING

  In the meantime, while we pursued our research and the French media accorded periodic flurries of attention to the whole affair, new "Prieuré documents" continued to appear. As before, some appeared in book form, others as privately printed pamphlets or articles deposited in the Bibliothèque Nationale. If anything, they only compounded the mystification. Someone was obviously producing this material, but the real objective remained unclear. At times we nearly dismissed the whole affair as an elaborate joke, a hoax of extravagant proportions. If this were true, however, it was a hoax that certain people seemed to have been sustaining for centuries— and if one invests such time, energy, and resources in a hoax, can it really be called a hoax at all? In fact, the interlocking skeins and the overall fabric of the "Prieuré documents" were less a joke than a work of art—a display of ingenuity, suspense, brilliance, intricacy, historical knowledge, and architechtonic complexity worthy of, say, James Joyce. And while Finnegans Wake may be regarded as a joke of sorts, there is no question that its creator took it very seriously indeed.

  It is important to note that the "Prieuré documents" did not constitute a conventional bandwagon—a lucrative fad that burgeoned into a profitable industry, spawning sequels, "prequels," and assorted other derivatives. They could not be compared, for example, to Von Daniken’s Chariot of the Gods, the sundry accounts of the Bermuda Triangle, or the works of Carlos Castaneda. Whatever the motivation behind the "Prieuré documents," it was clearly not financial gain. Indeed, money seemed to be only an incidental factor, if it was a factor at all. Although they would have proved extremely lucrative in book form, the most important "Prieuré documents" were not published as such. Despite their commercial potential they were confined to private printings, limited editions, and discreet deposition at the Bibliothèque Nationale—where, for that matter, they were not even always available. And the information that did appear in conventional book form was not haphazard or arbitrary—and for the most part it was not the work of independent researchers. Most of it seemed to issue from a single source. Most of it was based on the testimony of very specific informants, who measured out precise quantities of new information as if with an eyedropper—and according to some prearranged plan. Each new fragment of information added at least one modification, one further piece to the overall jigsaw. Many of these fragments were released under different names. A superficial impression was thus conveyed of an array of separate writers, each of whom confirmed and imparted credibility to the others.

  There appeared to us only one plausible motivation for such a procedure—to attract public attention to certain matters, to establish credibility, to engender interest, to create a psychological climate or atmosphere that kept people waiting with bated breath for new revelations. In short, the "Prieuré documents" seemed specifically calculated to "pave the way" for some astonishing disclosure. Whatever this disclosure might eventually prove to be, it apparently dictated a prolonged process of "softening up"—of preparing people. And whatever this disclosure might eventually prove to be, it somehow involved the Merovingian dynasty, the perpetuation of that dynasty’s bloodline to the present day, and a clandestine kingship. Thus, in a magazine article purportedly written by a member of the Prieuré de Sion we found the following statement: "Without the Merovingians, the Prieuré de Sion would not exist, and without the Prieuré de Sion, the Merovingian dynasty would be extinct." The relationship between the order and the bloodline is partly clarified, partly further confused, by the following elaboration:

  The King is, shepherd and pastor at the same time. Sometimes he dispatches some brilliant ambassador to his vassal in power, his factotum, one who has the felicity of being subject to death. Thus René d’Anjou, Connétable de Bourbon, Nicolas Fouquet ... and numerous others for whom astonishing success is followed by inexplicable disgrace—for these emissaries are both terrible and vulnerable. Custodians of a secret, one can only exalt them or destroy them. Thus people like Gilles de Rais, Leonardo da Vinci, Joseph Balsamo, the dukes of Nevers and Gonzaga, whose wake is attended by a perfume of magic in which sulphur is mingled with incense—the perfume of the Magdalen.

  If King Charles VII, on the entrance of Jeanne d’Arc into the great hall of his castle at Chinon, hid himself among the throng of his courtiers, it was not for the sake of a frivolous joke— where was the humor in it?—but because he already knew of whom she was the ambassadress. And that, before her, he was scarcely more than one courtier among the others. The secret she delivered to him in private was contained in these words: "Gentle lord, I come on behalf of the King."4

  The implications of this passage are provocative and intriguing One is that the king—the "Lost King," presumably of the Merovingian bloodline—continues in effect to rule, simply by virtue of who he is. Another and perhaps even more startling implication is that temporal sovereigns are aware of his existence, acknowledge him, respect him, and fear him. A third implication is that the grand master of the Prieuré de Sion or some other member of the order acts as ambassador between the "Lost King" and his temporal deputies or surrogates. And such ambassadors, it would seem, are deemed expendable.

  CURIOUS PAMPHLETS IN THE BIBLIOTHÈQUE NATIONALE, PARIS

  In 1966 a curious exchange of letters occurred concerning the death of Leo Schidlof—the man who, under the pseudonym Henri Lobineau, was at that time alleged to have composed the genealogies in some of the "Prieuré documents." The first letter, which appeared in the Catholic Weekly of Geneva, is dated October 22, 1966. It is signed by one Lionel Burrus, who claims to speak on behalf of an organization called Swiss Christian Youth. M. Burrus announces that Leo Schidlof, alias Henri Lobineau, died in Vienna the week before, on October 17. He then defends the deceased against a slanderous attack that, he claims, appeared in a recent Roman Catholic bulletin. M. Burrus registers his indignation at this attack. In his eulogy on Schidlof he declares that the latter, under the name of Lobineau, compiled, in 1956, "a remarkable study... on the genealogy of the Merovingian kings and the affair of Rennes-le-Château."

  Rome, M. Burrus asserts, did not dare asperse Schidlof when he was alive, even though it had a comprehensive dossier on the man and his activities. But even now, despite his death, Merovingian interests continue to be furthered. To support this contention M. Burrus seems to wax more than a little preposterous. He cites what, in 1966, was the emblem of Antar, one of France’s leading oil companies. This emblem is said to embody a Merovingian device and depict, albeit in cartoon fashion, a Merovingian king. And this emblem, according to M. Burrus, proves that information and propaganda on behalf of the Merovingians is being effectively disseminated; and even the French clergy, he adds with imperfect relevance, do not always jump at the behest of the Vatican. As for Leo Schidlof, M. Burrus concludes (with echoes of Freemasonry and Cathar thought), "For all those who knew Henri Lobineau, who was a great voyager and a great seeker, a loyal and good man, he remains in our hearts as the symbol of a ’maître parfait,’ whom one respects and venerates."5

  This letter from Lionel Burrus would seem distinctly cranky. Certainly it is extremely curious. More curious still, however, is the alleged attack on Schidlof in a Roman Catholic bulletin, from which M. Burrus quotes liberally. The bulletin, according to M. Burrus, accuses Schidlof of being "pro-Soviet, a notorious Freemason actively preparing the way for a popular monarchy in France."6 It is a singular and seemingly contradictory accusation—for one d
oes not usually combine Soviet sympathies with an attempt to establish a monarchy. And yet the bulletin, as M. Burrus claims to quote it, makes charges that are even more extravagant:

  The Merovingian descendants have always been behind all heresies, from Arianism, through the Cathars and the Templars, to Freemasonry. At the beginning of the Protestant Reformation, Cardinal Mazarin, in July 1659, had their château of Barberie, dating from the twelfth century, destroyed. For the house and family in question, all through the centuries, had spawned nothing but secret agitators against the Church.7

  M. Burrus does not specifically identify the Roman Catholic bulletin in which this quotation supposedly appeared; therefore we could not verify its authenticity. If it is authentic, however, it would be of considerable significance. It would constitute independent testimony, from Roman Catholic sources, of the razing of Château Barberie in Nevers. It would also seem to suggest at least a partial raison d’être for the Prieuré de Sion. We had already come to see Sion, and the families associated with it, as maneuvering for power on their own behalf—and in the process repeatedly clashing with the Church. According to the above quotation, however, opposition to the Church would not seem to have been a matter of chance, circumstances, or even politics. On the contrary, it would seem to have been a matter of ongoing policy. This confronted us with another contradiction. For the statutes of the Prieuré de Sion had issued, at least ostensibly, from a staunchly Catholic institution.

  Not long after the publication of his letter Lionel Burrus was killed in a car accident that claimed six other victims as well. Shortly before his death, however, his letter elicited a response even more curious and provocative than that which he himself had written. This response was published as a privately printed pamphlet under the name of S. Roux.8

  In certain respects S. Roux’s text would appear to echo the original attack on Schidlof, which prompted M. Burrus’ letter. It also chastises M. Burrus for being young, overzealous, irresponsible, and prone to talk too much. But while seeming to condemn M. Burrus’ position, not only does S. Roux’s pamphlet confirm his facts, it actually elaborates on them. Leo Schidlof, S. Roux affirms, was a dignitary of the Swiss Grand Loge Alpina—the Masonic lodge whose imprint appeared on certain of the "Prieuré documents." According to S. Roux, Schidlof "did not conceal his sentiments of friendship for the Eastern Bloc."9 As for M. Burrus’ statements about the Church, S. Roux continues:

  one cannot say that the Church is ignorant of the line of the Razes, but it must be remembered that all its descendants, since Dagobert, have been secret agitators against both the royal line of France and against the Church—and that they have been the source of all heresies. The return of a Merovingian descendant to power would entail for France the proclamation of a popular monarchy allied to the USSR, and the triumph of Freemasonry— in short, the disappearance of religious freedom.10

  If all of this sounds rather extraordinary, the concluding statements of S. Roux’s pamphlet are even more so:

  As for the question of Merovingian propaganda in France, everyone knows that the publicity of Antar Petrol, with a Merovingian king holding a Lily and a Circle, is a popular appeal in favor of returning the Merovingians to power. And one cannot but wonder what Lobineau was preparing at the time of his decease in Vienna, on the eve of profound changes in Germany. Is it also true that Lobineau prepared in Austria a future reciprocal accord with France? Was not this the basis of the Franco-Russian accord?11

  Not surprisingly we were utterly bewildered, wondering what the devil S. Roux was talking about. If anything, he appeared to have outdone M. Burrus in lunacy. Like the bulletin M. Burrus had attacked, S. Roux links together political objectives as apparently diverse and discordant as Soviet hegemony and popular monarchy. He goes further than M. Burrus by declaring that "everyone knows" the emblem of an oil company to be a subtle form of propaganda— for an unknown and apparently ludicrous cause. He hints at sweeping changes in France, Germany, and Austria as if these changes were already "on the cards," if not indeed faits accomplis. And he speaks of a mysterious "Franco-Russian" accord as if this accord were a matter of public knowledge.

  On first reading, S. Roux’s pamphlet appeared to be the work of a madman. A closer scrutiny convinced us that it was, in fact, another ingenious "Prieuré document"—deliberately calculated to mystify, to confuse, to tease, to sow hints of something portentous and monumental. In any case, it offered, in its wildly eccentric way, an intimation of the magnitude of the issues involved. If S. Roux was correct, the subject of our inquiry was not confined to the activities of some elusive but innocuous latter-day chivalric order. If S. Roux was correct, the subject of our inquiry pertained in some way to the upper echelons of high-level international politics.

  THE CATHOLIC TRADITIONALISTS

  In 1977 a new and particularly significant "Prieuré document" appeared—a six-page pamphlet entitled Le Cercle d’Ulysse written by one Jean Delaude. In the course of his text the writer addresses himself explicitly to the Prieuré de Sion. And although he rehashes much old material, he also furnishes certain new details about the order:

  In March 1117 Baudouin was compelled, at Saint Leonard d’Acre, to negotiate and prepare the constitution of the Order of the Temple, under the directives of the Prieuré de Sion. In 1118 the Order of the Temple was then established by Hugues de Payen. From 1118 to 1188 the Prieuré de Sion and the Order of the Temple shared the same Grand Masters. Since the separation of the two institutions in 1188, the Prieuré de Sion has counted twenty-seven Grand Masters to the present day. The most recent were

  and from 1963 until the advent of the new order, the Abbé Ducaud-Bourget.

  For what is the Prieuré de Sion preparing? I do not know, but it represents a power capable of confronting the Vatican in the days to come. Monsignor Lefebvre is a most active and redoubtable member, capable of saying: "You make me Pope and I will make you King."12

  There are two important new fragments of information in this extract. One is the alleged affiliation with the Prieuré de Sion of Archbishop Marcel Lefebvre. Monsignor Lefebvre, of course, represents the extreme conservative wing of the Roman Catholic Church. He was vociferously outspoken against Pope Paul VI, whom he flagrantly and flamboyantly defied. In 1976 and 1977, in fact, he was explicitly threatened with excommunication; and his brazen indifference to this threat nearly precipitated a full-scale ecclesiastical schism. But how could we reconcile a militant "hard-line" Catholic like Monsignor Lefebvre with a movement and an order that was Hermetic, if not downright heretical, in orientation? There seemed to be no explanation for this contradiction, unless Monsignor Lefebvre was a modern-day representative of the nineteenth-century Freemasonry associated with the Hiéron du Val d’Or—the "Christian, aristocratic and Hermetic Freemasonry" that presumed to regard itself as more Catholic than the Pope.

  The second major point in the extract quoted above is, of course, the identification of the Prieuré de Sion’s grand master at that time as Abbé Ducaud-Bourget. François Ducaud-Bourget was born in 1897 and trained for the priesthood at—predictably enough—the Seminary of Saint Sulpice. He is thus likely to have known many of the Modernists there at the time—and, quite possibly, Émile Hoffet. Subsequently he was conventual chaplain of the Sovereign Order of Malta. For his activities during the Second World War he received the Resistance Medal and the Croix de Guerre. Today he is recognized as a distinguished man of letters—a member of the Académie Française, a biographer of important French Catholic writers such as Paul Claudel and François Mauriac, and a highly esteemed poet in his own right.

  Like Monsignor Lefebvre the Abbé Ducaud-Bourget assumed a stance of militant opposition to Pope Paul VI. Like Monsignor Lefebvre he is an adherent of the Tridentine Mass. Like Monsignor Lefebvre he has proclaimed himself a "traditionalist" adamantly opposed to ecclesiastical reform or any attempt to "modernize" Roman Catholicism. On May 22, 1976, he was forbidden to administer confession or absolution—and like Monsignor L
efebvre he boldly defied the interdict imposed on him by his superiors. On February 27, 1977, he led a thousand Catholic traditionalists in their occupation of the Church of Saint-Nicolas-du-Chardonnet in Paris.

  If Marcel Lefebvre and François Ducaud-Bourget appear to be "right-wing" theologically, they would seem to be equally so politically. Before the Second World War Monsignor Lefebvre was associated with Action Française—the extreme right of French politics at the time, which shared certain attitudes in common with National Socialism in Germany. More recently the "rebel archbishop" attracted considerable notoriety by warmly endorsing the military regime in Argentina. When questioned on this position, he replied that he had made a mistake. He had not meant Argentina, he said, but Chile! François Ducaud-Bourget would not appear to be quite so extreme, and his medals, at any rate, attest to patriotic anti-German activity during the war. Nevertheless, he has expressed a high regard for Mussolini and the hope that France would "recover its sense of values under the guidance of a new Napoleon."13

  Our first suspicion was that Marcel Lefebvre and François Ducaud-Bourget were not, in fact, affiliated with the Prieuré de Sion at all, but that someone had deliberately attempted to embarrass them by aligning them with the very forces they would, in theory, most vigorously oppose. And yet according to the statutes we had obtained from the French police, the subtitle of the Prieuré de Sion was Chevalerie d’Institutions et Règles Catholiques, d’Union Indépendante et Traditionaliste. An institution with such a name might very well accommodate individuals like Marcel Lefebvre and François Ducaud-Bourget.