Gene of Isis (35 page)

If Christ is with us then all twenty of these knights will survive long enough to be rewarded with their salvation.

Tomorrow the truce expires.

How can I describe the anguish of witnessing my closest friends and respected colleagues come to terms with their impending death? Not a one of the one hundred and eighty
Perfecti
surviving at Montsègur is prepared to accept the terms we have been offered. Just as the thousands of believers who have died before us chose martyrdom over a lie, so shall all those here. Except my sister and myself. Sadly, we have been assigned another fate, and although I know our mission is a vital one, it does not ease the guilt and envy that I feel in my soul.

Guilt—that I must lie whilst my brethren die bravely for the cause. Envy—because tomorrow my fellow
Perfecti
shall finally achieve salvation. Their souls will be freed by the flame from this evil prison of flesh and blood, in which I must remain and continue to suffer.

Tonight will mark the last supper of the true faith at Montsègur, and just as Jesus shared the Bread of Life with his apostles to strengthen their steadfastness during the torments to come, so shall all the faithful among us be rewarded. I have full permission from the Grand Master of Sion to allow our bishop to aid our people in this way. Then, any among us who choose death on the morrow,
including the men-at-arms, shall be given the choice to be set apart as one of the
Perfecti,
by being granted the rite of
consolamentum.

The truce has expired.

Early this morning our lord descended to the camp of the enemy to assure Hugues de Archis that the fortress would be handed over as promised. When asked if all the besieged were prepared to accept the terms of surrender, our lord informed him that over half the remaining occupants were not prepared to relinquish their faith.

‘Then, in accordance with the law of the Holy Inquisition, they will burn on the morrow at dawn,’ Pierre Amiel, Archbishop of Narbonne, decreed.

I have never met the church representative who was installed in the town of my birth after my timely exodus. I know this man to be responsible for the deaths of those I grew up with and feel sure that there could not be a more wretched embodiment of Rex Mundi alive in this world.

Since the truce, the archbishop has kept his crusader knights busy building a large wooden holding yard and filling it with firewood—to burn any of the
Perfecti
that hold firm to their faith.

The Lord of Montsègur could not believe that, following the rite held last night by our bishop which all believers had been invited to attend, over twenty of his men-at-arms had chosen to receive the rite of
consolamentum,
condemning themselves to death on the morrow.

Pierre-Roger Mirepoix had not attended the rite. He had no intention of dying, and hence had precious need of absolution. In his mind, he had
done nothing but try to fulfil his duty to the citizens of Montsègur. He chose instead to keep watch on the fortress wall, along with several other knights.

This morning Lord Mirepoix inquired of his faithful mercenary knights, Guillaume de Lahille and Bernard de Saint-Martin, why they had converted when in two days time they could have left Montsègur free men and pardoned of their crimes against the church? The knights, who had led the massacre of the inquisitors of Avignonet, replied that when they had received the Bread of Life they had glimpsed the true kingdom of god and thus had lost all desire for this world. They now realised the error of their ways and having been absolved of their sins against god, they wished to depart this world as one of the ‘pure ones’ before conflict could again tarnish their souls.

Of course their motives came as no surprise to any of we
Perfecti,
for such is the effect of manna upon the soul, even in the smallest of quantities.

This will be my last account of my time at Montsègur, and it is with a heavy heart and conscience that I put pen to parchment.

This morning over two hundred
Perfecti
marched down from the fortress and into the large wood-filled stockade at the southern foot of the mountain, where they were burned
en masse.
Some were cast into the flames by their captors, but most flung themselves into the huge pyre, more than willing to depart this world.

The remainder of the garrison was confined to the fortress and were compelled to look on—my sister, Lilutu, and myself were hidden among them, disguised as warrior knights. We do not fear death, any more than our brethren, but our destiny is to follow a different path of suffering.

The winds carried the horrendous death cries of my brethren to my ears and then swept them away just as efficiently. And although their suffering will haunt my consciousness the rest of my days, I did not feel compelled to weep, for I knew their joy and envied them their spiritual liberation. The sound of
restrained weeping then caught my attention and the source was close by.

I was surprised and ashamed to look beside me and find tears rolling down Lilutu’s face. ‘Turn away if you must, and block your ears. But do not expose yourself. No warrior would weep,’ I whispered to her.

My sister turned from the fires and sank to her haunches, breathing deep in an attempt to stop her flow of tears. ‘How can you be so cold? These are our friends, our family.’

‘Would you have their sacrifice be in vain?’ I snapped. She knew as well as I what was at stake. ‘All is lost if you cannot refrain from expressing your selfish sentiment.’

The Franks had assured our men-at-arms that they would be free to leave Montsègur on the morrow, but there was no guarantee that we would be left alone until that time, for our enemies had made idle promises before. Lilutu and I may have been able to pass as warriors at a distance, as we were both quite tall for our gender, but at close range our chain mail and warrior tunics wouldn’t, in all likelihood, prevent our discovery.

Fortunately, we would not be marching out of Montsègur with the other men-at-arms tomorrow. Our departure would take place tonight, despite the risk to the remaining garrison and the hostages still being held by Hugues de Archis. Even if the Franks kept their word and permitted our warriors to depart with their wealth and weapons, they would be searched for the legendary treasure that had spawned the forty-year crusade against our people.

To do honour to the tens of thousands who had already given their lives for the cause, all survivors
at Montsègur were prepared to make the same sacrifice to ensure the escape of my party this night. At all costs the secret we harbour must not fall into the hands of the papacy.

After two days of solid travel we have reached the chateau of Blancheford, the ancestral home of the fourth Grand Master of the Temple knights, Bertrand de Blanchefort, whose descendants still provide a safe haven for all of our faith.

As I am alive to pen this account, I need not dwell on the success of our escape from Montsègur, except to mention that one of the two Credenti warriors assigned to protect my sister and I perished during our treacherous descent of the sheer western face of the mountain. For it seemed that Pierre-Roger Mirepoix did not trust the guide appointed to us by the Order of Sion as well as our
Perfecti
leaders had done—for the knight did not subscribe to our faith. To add to our suspicions, the only member of our party to have witnessed the death of our Credenti protector was the Sion knight who went by the name of Albray Devere. According to his account, our colleague had lost his footing and in his panic to right the situation he’d wriggled so much that he’d worn the rope to shreds; Sir Devere suspected the rope had begun to fray as the three of us had each descended. Our Sion guide had then employed a spare rope to lower himself to the ledge and passage where we awaited him. The passage led into myriad secret tunnels through the mountain.

To add to the shadow cast over our guide, at the exit from the mountain our party was surprised by a band of Sion knights, who claimed that they were
the true representatives sent by Marie de Saint-Clair and that Sir Devere was an impostor.

As their leader, Sir Christian Molier, is a Frenchman, it seemed more likely that he is of the Order de Sion, and after having our Credenti colleague perish at the hands of Sir Devere, our remaining Credenti guardian was more inclined to believe Molier’s claim.

Sir Devere was seized and disarmed by Molier’s men, two of whom were instructed to escort him back to Sion headquarters in Orleans immediately.

The Scottish knight protested strongly to his removal from duty and swore blind that it was Molier who was lying, despite being beaten for his accusations. Devere was then bound, and dragged from our midst on foot behind the horses of his captors.

Molier has swiftly delivered us to our first destination and hence I can only assume that our decision to trust him is a sound one. Our Credenti guardian, Pierre de Saint-Martin, and I both feel quite confident in entrusting Molier and his men to arrange the second leg of our journey.

Part of the treasure we have removed from Montsègur is a document of vital historical import. It has been in the possession of our holy order since the Visigoths sacked Rome in 410AD. It is hoped that in future times this sacred relic will authenticate the validity of my bloodline. As this document shall be no safer where I am bound than it would be in the hands of the papacy, it must remain here with my sister Lilutu who, with the aid of our Blancheford allies, will see to a suitable place of concealment. However, the treasure that has been entrusted to me does not belong in this world. And
as I know of only one remaining passage that leads to the realm of its origin, I must make the perilous journey to Outremer—the land beyond the sun—otherwise known as the Kingdom of Jerusalem.

A late note: I have just been informed that the two knights who were assigned to escort Sir Devere to Orleans have been killed. One of the knights perished at the time of Devere’s escape and the other has died from his wounds upon arrival at Chateau Blancheford with this news.

As the impostor is again at large I have been warned to be on my guard, in case he attempts to acquire my sacred charge. Molier has posted guards outside the door of my quarters and I feel confident enough of my safety. The god of light and spirit is surely guiding my quest to a speedy conclusion.

There is no community left that can be entrusted to harbour and not misuse this great gift from heaven. Hence, the creator must be most eager to have his sacred treasure back in His fold where it shall be safe from mankind once more.

For a week now I have been a prisoner and have been forced to move at such a relentless pace that I have not had a moment to put pen to parchment.

The same night when last I wrote, my Credenti guardian, Pierre de Saint-Martin, was murdered as he slept and so would I have been, had I not vowed I would cooperate with my abductor.

The traitor Devere managed to gain access to my quarters at Chateau Blancheford via a window and bolted my room shut from the inside. Sword to my throat, he requested I accompany him or hand over my treasure into his safekeeping.

If not for the threat to my life, and my quest, it would have been difficult not to scoff at his demand. Still, I insisted upon knowing for whom the knight was working before I would consider either of his requests.

He replied that he had already told me that he was in the service of Marie de Saint-Clair, and applying more pressure to the sword tip at my throat he stressed that he would not allow my burden to be stolen due to the bad judgement of a naive girl. I was not given the opportunity to protest to his insult as he advised that he intended to see the treasure to its resting place, alone if he must.

Sir Devere had no need to lie to me with the situation as it was, and for a moment his conviction to the cause swayed my better judgement. I warned him that any man would perish on this quest without a daughter of the blood as a guide.

A loud pounding on my door prevented me from confiding in him further, praise god.

It was Molier who yelled through the thick wooden door to warn me that Pierre de Saint-Martin had been slain and he ordered that I unbolt my door at once for my own safety.

What little favour Devere had gained was abruptly dispersed, and I accused him of murdering yet another of my guardians.

Devere simply pointed out that his sword was clean. Then, wrapping my long dark braid around one hand, Devere dragged me from my bed and tossed my warrior disguise at me. ‘No time for a judicial inquiry now, princess,’ he hissed.

His lack of respect for my station infuriated me—no knight of the high orders would treat a priestess of the blood in such a manner, whether he
subscribed to the faith or not. This seemed to confirm Devere’s falsehood in my mind and I glanced to the solid timber door that was being rammed, hoping the guards would break through.

‘You are not the only daughter of the blood left on Earth,’ Devere commented, as he spotted the two chains around my neck disappearing under my long undershirt.

He was implying that my sister would serve his purpose just as well as I, and she would prove a far less troublesome hostage. My sister was needed at the chateau and I was hardly going to expose her to further danger; she did not have the constitution for such an adventure. Too many people had died to aid my quest for me to be parted from my burden so easily.

I dressed quickly, but before we descended the rope to the courtyard that would soon be swarming with guards, Devere stole one of the chains from around my neck. It was the chain of gold that hosted the Star—the Highward Fire-Stone.

‘Stay close or lose it,’ he warned.

It puzzled me then, as it does now, why Devere didn’t take both sacred vials? Why bother extending me such a show of faith? And yet, if Devere had indeed been a knight of the high orders of Sion, he may well know that the Fire vial I carry is of little use to me or anyone else who is not a male of my bloodline, for it is meant for their consumption alone. Only the contents of the Star vial heightened my awareness and the supernatural talents inherent in me. Those of my order only partook of the Highward Fire-Stone during sacred rites or holy feast days and even then, it was in the smallest of quantities so that its influence was of a temporary
duration. Too much psychic talent had been known to drive women of my order insane with visions of the dark times ahead and the evil thoughts and intent of the non-Perfecti. In this instance, however, I feel the creator would have forgiven me for using the sacred substance to divine the truth about my abductor.

As it is, I am in a complete quandary with regard to his true loyalties, for he has made it quite clear that he does not subscribe to the beliefs of my faith. And when I asked him why the Grand Master of Sion had chosen him for this mission, Devere claimed he was the only knight of his order who had previously visited our final destination. This seemed a satisfactory reason and yet I sensed there was something he wasn’t telling me. I fear that only when we reach the Sinai will I be enlightened to his true character and intent.

In a few days we will reach Marseilles, and board a vessel bound for Outremer. Once our sea voyage has commenced it will prove nearly impossible for Molier’s rescue party to find us. I can only pray that he will hunt us down before then. For, despite his tolerance so far, I do not trust Devere. The way he observes me at times is most unnerving. I can almost hear the selfish voice of Rex Mundi at work upon his mind and heart.

I found my abductor’s choice of transport for our sea voyage curious. Although the Templar Knights have many vessels that sail between their coastal strongholds on this side of the Mediterranean coast, Devere opted to purchase passage on an Armenian trade ship headed home to Cilicia, via Antioch.
The ship and captain may have been Cilician, but the crew was a mix of Armenians, Christian Palestinians and Arabs—there were even a couple of Turks. Despite the cultural diversity of the crew they conversed mainly in Arabic, except for when they were socialising within their own ethnic group.

I suspected Devere’s choice of transport had something to do with the rift that had caused the formal separation between the Order of Sion and the knights of the Temple at Gisors in 1188. Since then the Templars’ parent order has slipped quietly into obscurity, whilst the Templars, free to pursue their own objectives, have dramatically increased their fame, wealth and power. It is my guess that the separation was all show, for the knights of the Temple are fast becoming more influential than any one king, emperor, or even the Church of Rome. I fear the papacy will not tolerate such undermining of their authority, and once they have finished with the persecution of my people, they will be looking for new wealth and knowledge to covet. One thing I do know for certain is that the two orders of knights no longer share the same Grand Master and have not done so since the time Bertrand de Blancheford held the high position.

Watching Devere converse with the captain and crew of our vessel, it is clear that he feels far more at ease with these men of the East than he did with the men-at-arms at Montsègur. It is also apparent that his colouring—dark hair, eyes and skin—is similar to these men. He certainly has no problem conversing in the foreign dialect. In fact, Arabic seems to roll off his tongue more readily than D’oc or English; for a Scot his accent had, from the start, seemed rather lacking in colour.

I, too, had dark colouring, for it is said that the blood of Judah still runs strong in the females of my line. One day, should I survive this quest, I shall be called upon to mate with a male of the blood and produce an heir to carry on the holy traditions and keep the sacred knowledge until such time as mankind is ready for an awakening. Three-quarters of a century ago, St Bernard had hoped that this time was nigh, but the past forty years of terror and torture have extinguished all hope in that regard.