Holy Blood, Holy Grail

by Baigent, Michael

  There is no question that Sigisbert existed and that he was Dagobert’s heir. According to all sources other than the "Prieuré documents," however, it is unclear what happened to him. Certain chroniclers have tacitly assumed that he was murdered along with his father and other members of the royal family. One highly dubious account asserts that he died in a hunting accident a year or two before his father’s death. If that is true, Sigisbert must have been a precocious hunter, for he cannot possibly have been much more than three years old at the time.

  There is no record whatever of Sigisbert’s death. Nor is there any record—apart from the evidence in the "Prieuré documents"—of his survival. The whole issue seems to have been lost in "the mists of time," and no one seems to have been much concerned about it-except, of course, for the Prieuré de Sion. In any case, Sion appeared to be privy to certain information that was not available elsewhere or was deemed of too little consequence to warrant much investigation or was deliberately suppressed.

  It is hardly surprising that no account of Sigisbert’s fate has filtered down to us. There was no publicly accessible account even of Dagobert until the seventeenth century. At some point during the Middle Ages, a systematic attempt was apparently made to erase Dagobert from history, to deny that he ever existed. Today Dagobert II can be found in any encyclopedia. Until 1646, however, there was no acknowledgment whatever that he had ever lived. 26 Any list or genealogy of French rulers compiled before 1646 simply omits him, jumping (despite the flagrant inconsistency) from Dagobert I to Dagobert III—one of the last Merovingian monarchs, who died in 715. And not until 1655 was Dagobert II reinstated in accepted lists of French kings. Given this process of eradication, we were not unduly astonished at the dearth of information relating to Sigisbert. And we could not but suspect that whatever information did exist had been deliberately suppressed.

  But why, we wondered, should Dagobert II have been excised from history? What was being concealed by such an excision? Why should one wish to deny the very existence of a man? One possibility, of course, is to negate thereby the existence of his heirs. If Dagobert never lived, Sigisbert cannot have lived either. But why should it have been important, as late as the seventeenth century, to deny that Sigisbert had ever lived? Unless he had indeed survived, and his descendants were still regarded as a threat.

  It seemed to us that we were clearly dealing with some sort of "cover-up." Quite patently there were vested interests who had something of import to lose if knowledge of Sigisbert’s survival were made public. In the ninth century, and perhaps as late as the Crusades, these interests would seem to have been the Roman Church and the French royal line. But why should the issue have continued to matter as late as the age of Louis XIV? It would surely have been an academic point by then, for three French dynasties had come and gone, while Protestantism had broken Roman hegemony. Unless there was indeed something very special about the Merovingian blood: not "magical properties,’’ but something else—something that retained its explosive potency even after superstitions about magical blood had fallen by the wayside.

  PRINCE GUILLEM DE GELLONE, COMTE DE RAZES

  According to the "Prieuré documents" Sigisbert IV, on the death of his father, was rescued by his sister and smuggled southward to the domain of his mother—the Visigoth princess, Giselle de Razes. He is said to have arrived in the Languedoc in 681 and, at some point shortly thereafter, to have adopted—or inherited—his uncle’s titles, duke of Razes and count of Rhédae. He is also said to have adopted the surname, or nickname, of "Plant-Ard" (subsequently Plantard) from the appellation "réjeton ardent"—"ardently flowering shoot" of the Merovingian vine. Under this name, and under the titles acquired from his uncle, he is said to have perpetuated his lineage. And by 886 one branch of that lineage is said to have culminated in a certain Bernard Plantavelu—apparently derived from Plant-Ard or Plantard—whose son became the first duke of Aquitaine.

  As far as we could ascertain, no independent historian either confirmed or disputed these assertions. The whole matter was simply ignored. But the circumstantial evidence argued persuasively that Sigisbert did indeed survive to perpetuate his lineage. The assiduous eradication of Dagobert from history lends credence to this conclusion. By denying his existence any line of descent from him would have been invalidated. This constitutes a motive for an otherwise inexplicable action. Among the other fragments of evidence is a charter, dated 718, which pertains to the foundation of a monastery-a few miles from Rennes-le-Château—by "Sigebert, Comte de Rhédae and his wife, Magdala."27 Apart from this charter nothing is heard of the Rhédae or Razes titles for another century. When one of them reappears, however, it does so in an extremely interesting context.

  By 742 there was an independent and fully autonomous state in the south of France—a princedom according to some accounts, a fully fledged kingdom according to others. Documentation is sketchy and history is vague about it—most historians, in fact, are unaware of its existence—but there is no question of its reality. It was officially recognized by Charlemagne and his successors and by the caliph of Baghdad and the Islamic world. It was grudgingly recognized by the Church, some of whose lands it confiscated. And it survived until the late ninth century.

  Sometime between 759 and 768 the ruler of this state—which included the Razes and Rennes-le-Château—was officially pronounced a king. Despite Rome’s disapprobation he was recognized as such by the Carolingians, to whom he pledged himself as vassal. In existing accounts he figures most frequently under the name of Theodoric, or Thierry. And most modern scholars regard him as being of Merovingian descent. 28 There is no definitive evidence from where such descent might have derived. It might well have derived from Sigisbert. In any case, there is no question that by 790 Theodoric’s son, Guillem de Gellone, held the title of count of Razès—the title Sigisbert is said to have possessed and passed on to his descendants.

  Guillem de Gellone was one of the most famous men of his time, so much so, indeed, that his historical reality—like that of Charlemagne and Godfroi de Bouillon—has been obscured by legend. Before the epoch of the Crusades there were at least six major epic poems composed about him, chansons de geste similar to the famous Chanson de Roland. In The Divine Comedy Dante accorded him a uniquely exalted status. But even before Dante Guillem had again become an object of literary attention. In the early thirteenth century he figured as the protagonist of Willehalm, an unfinished epic romance composed by Wolfram von Eschenbach—whose most famous work, Parzival, is probably the most important of all romances dealing with the mysteries of the Holy Grail. It seemed to us somewhat curious at first that Wolfram—all of whose other work deals with the Grail, the "Grail family," and the lineage of the "Grail family"—should suddenly devote himself to so radically different a theme as Guillem de Gellone. On the other hand, Wolfram stated in another poem that the "Grail castle," abode of the "Grail family," was situated in the Pyrenees—in what, at the beginning of the ninth century, was Guillem de Gellone’s domain.

  Guillem maintained a close rapport with Charlemagne. His sister, in fact, was married to one of Charlemagne’s sons, thus establishing a dynastic link with the imperial blood. And Guillem himself was one of Charlemagne’s most important commanders in the incessant warfare against the Moors. In 803, shortly after Charlemagne’s coronation as Holy Roman Emperor, Guillem captured Barcelona, doubling his own territory and extending his influence across the Pyrenees. So grateful was Charlemagne for his services that his principality was confirmed by the emperor as a permanent institution. The charter ratifying this has been lost or destroyed, but there is abundant testimony to its existence.

  Independent and unimpugnable authorities have provided detailed genealogies of Guillem de Gellone’s line—his family and descendants. 29 These sources, however, provide no indication of Guillem’s antecedents, except for his father, Theodoric. In short, the real origins of the family were shrouded in mystery. And contemporary scholars and historians are gener
ally somewhat puzzled about the enigmatic appearance, as if by spontaneous generation, of so influential a noble house. But one thing, at any rate, is certain. By 886 the line of Guillem de Gellone culminated in a certain Bernard Plantavelu, who established the duchy of Aquitaine. In other words, Guillem’s line culminated in precisely the same individual as the line ascribed by the "Prieuré documents" to Sigisbert IV and his descendants.

  We were tempted, of course, to jump to conclusions and use the genealogies in the "Prieuré documents" to bridge the gap left by accepted history. We were tempted to assume that the elusive progenitors of Guillem de Gellone were Dagobert II, Sigisbert IV, and the main line of the deposed Merovingian dynasty—the line cited in the "Prieuré documents" under the name Plant-Ard, or Plantard.

  Unfortunately we could not do so. Given the confused state of existing records, we could not definitely establish the precise connection between the Plantard line and the line of Guillem de Gellone. They might indeed have been one and the same. On the other hand, they might have intermarried at some point. What remained certain, however, was that both lines, by 886, had culminated in Bernard Plantavelu and the dukes of Aquitaine.

  Although they did not always match precisely in dating and translation of names, the genealogies connected with Guillem de Gellone did constitute a certain independent confirmation for the genealogies in the "Prieuré documents." We could thus tentatively accept, in the absence of any contradictory evidence, that the Merovingian bloodline did continue more or less as the "Prieuré documents" maintained. We could tentatively accept that Sigisbert did survive his father’s murder, did adopt the family name of Plantard, and, as count of Razes, did perpetuate his father’s lineage.

  PRINCE URSUS

  By 886, of course, the "flowering shoot of the Merovingian vine" had blossomed into a large and complicated family tree. Bernard Plantavelu and the dukes of Aquitaine constituted one branch. There were other branches as well. Thus, the "Prieuré documents" declare that Sigisbert IV’s grandson, Sigisbert VI, was known by the name of "Prince Ursus." Between 877 and 879 Prince Ursus is said to have

  (Continuation of The Merovingian Dynasty—"The Lost Kings")

  been officially proclaimed King Ursus. Aided by two nobles—Bernard d’Auvergne and the marquis of Gothie—he is said to have undertaken an insurrection against Louis II of France in an attempt to regain his rightful heritage.

  Independent historians confirm that such an insurrection did indeed occur between 877 and 879. These same historians refer to Bernard d’Auvergne and the marquis of Gothie. The leader or instigator of the insurrection is not specifically named as Sigisbert VI. But there are references to an individual known as Prince Ursus. Moreover, Prince Ursus is known to have been involved in a curious and elaborate ceremony in Nimes at which five hundred assembled ecclesiastics chanted the Te Deum.30 From all accounts of it, this ceremony would seem to have been a coronation. It may well have been the coronation to which the "Prieuré documents" alluded—the proclamation of Prince Ursus as king.

  Once again the "Prieuré documents" received independent support. Once again they seemed to draw on information unobtainable elsewhere—information that supplemented and sometimes even helped explain caesuras in accepted history. In this case they had apparently told us who the elusive Prince Ursus actually was—the lineal descendant, through Sigisbert IV, of the murdered Dagobert II. And the insurrection, of which historians had hitherto made no sense, could now be seen as a perfectly comprehensible attempt by the deposed Merovingian dynasty to regain its heritage—the heritage conferred upon it by Rome through the pact with Clovis and then subsequently betrayed.

  According to both the "Prieuré documents" and independent sources the insurrection failed, Prince Ursus and his supporters being defeated at a battle near Poitiers in 881. With this setback the Plantard family is said to have lost its possessions in the south of France—although it still clung to the now purely titular status of duke of Rhédae and count of Razes. Prince Ursus is said to have died in Brittany, while his line became allied by marriage with the Breton ducal house. By the late ninth century, then, the Merovingian blood had flowed into the duchies of both Brittany and Aquitaine.

  In the years that followed, the family—including Alain, later duke of Brittany—is said to have sought refuge in England, establishing an English branch called Planta. Independent authorities again confirm that Alain, his family, and entourage fled from the Vikings to England. According to the "Prieuré documents" one of the English branch of the family, listed as Bera VI, was nicknamed "the Architect. " He and his descendants, having found a haven in England under King Athelstan, are said to have practiced "the art of building"— a seemingly enigmatic reference. Interestingly enough, Masonic sources date the origin of Freemasonry in England from the reign of King Athelstan.31 Could the Merovingian bloodline, we wondered, in addition to its claim to the French throne, be in some way connected with something at the core of Freemasonry?

  THE GRAIL FAMILY

  The Middle Ages abound with a mythology as rich and resonant as those of ancient Greece and Rome. Some of this mythology pertains, although wildly exaggerated in form, to actual historical personages— to Arthur, to Roland and Charlemagne, to Rodrigo Diaz of Vivar, popularly known as El Cid. Other myths—like those relating to the Grail, for example—would seem at first to rest on a more tenuous foundation.

  Among the most popular and evocative of medieval myths is that of Lohengrin, the "Swan Knight." On the one hand, it is closely linked with the fabulous Grail romances; on the other, it cites specific historical personages. In its mingling of fact and fantasy it may well be unique. And through such works as Wagner’s opera it continues to exert its archetypal appeal even today.

  According to medieval accounts Lohengrin—sometimes called Helyas, implying solar associations—was a scion of the elusive and mysterious "Grail family." In Wolfram von Eschenbach’s poem he is in fact the son of Parzival, the supreme knight of the Grail. One day in the sacred temple or castle of the Grail at Munsalvaesche, Lohengrin is said to have heard the chapel bell tolling without the intervention of human hands—a signal that his aid was urgently required somewhere in the world. It was required, predictably enough, by a damsel in distress—the duchess of Brabant,32 according to some sources, the duchess of Bouillon, according to others. The lady desperately needed a champion, and Lohengrin hastened to her rescue in a boat drawn by heraldic swans. In single combat he defeated the duchess’s persecutor, then married the lady. At their nuptials, however, he issued a stringent warning. Never was his bride to query him about his origins or ancestry, his background or the place whence he came. And for some years the lady obeyed her husband’s edict. At last, however, goaded to fatal curiosity by the

  12 The Merovingian Dynasty—"The Lost Kings" From the work of Henri Lobineau (Henri de Lénoncourt)

  scurrilous insinuations of rivals, she presumed to ask the forbidden question. Thereupon Lohengrin was compelled to depart, vanishing in his swan-drawn boat into the sunset. And behind him, with his wife, he left a child of uncertain lineage. According to the various accounts this child was either the father or the grandfather of Godfroi de Bouillon.

  It is difficult for the modern mind to appreciate the magnitude of Godfroi’s status in popular consciousness—not only in his own time but even as late as the seventeenth century. Today when one thinks of the Crusades, one thinks of Richard Coeur de Lion, King John, perhaps Louis IX (Saint Louis) or Frederick Barbarossa. But until relatively recently none of these individuals enjoyed Godfroi’s prestige or acclaim. Godfroi, leader of the First Crusade, was the supreme popular hero, the hero par excellence. It was Godfroi who inaugurated the Crusades. It was Godfroi who captured Jerusalem from the Saracens. It was Godfroi rescued Christ’s sepulchre from infidel hands. It was Godfroi, above all others, who, in people’s imaginations, reconciled the ideals of high chivalric enterprise and fervent Christian piety. Not surprisingly, therefore, Godfroi became the obj
ect of a cult that persisted long after his death.

  Given this exalted status, it is understandable that Godfroi should be credited with all manner of illustrious mythical pedigrees. It is even understandable that Wolfram von Eschenbach and other medieval romanciers should link him directly with the Grail—should depict him as a lineal descendant of the mysterious "Grail family." And such fabulous pedigrees are rendered even more comprehensible by the fact that Godfroi’s true lineage is obscure. History remains uncomfortably uncertain about his ancestry.33

  The "Prieuré documents’’ furnished us with the most plausible— perhaps, indeed, the first plausible—genealogy of Godfroi de Bouillon that has yet come to light. As far as this genealogy could be checked—and much of it could be—it proved accurate. We found no evidence to contradict it, much to support it; and it convincingly bridged a number of perplexing historical gaps.

  According to the genealogy in the "Prieuré documents" Godfroi de Bouillon—by virtue of his great-grandmother, who married Hugues de Plantard in 1009—was a lineal descendant of the Plantard family. In other words, Godfroi was of Merovingian blood, directly descended from Dagobert II, Sigisbert IV, and the line of Merovingian "lost kings"—"les rois perdus." For four centuries the Merovingian blood royal appears to have flowed through gnarled and numerous family trees. At last, through a process analogous to the grafting of vines in viticulture, it would seem to have borne fruit in Godfroi de Bouillon, duke of Lorraine. And here, in the house of Lorraine, it established a new patrimony.