The Book of Love (13 page)

“This six-petaled rose is the symbol of the Book of Love, Matilda. And with it, you shall learn the secrets of the Pater Noster.” He turned to Isobel. “She knows it, of course?”

“She knows our version in Tuscan and the traditional in German and Latin. And I am teaching her French, so she will have it in four, Master.”

“And how is her reading and writing?”

“She is a quick pupil in such things. Remarkable, in fact. I believe she will read and write in all these languages with great skill if her father determines that she will be allowed to continue with her education. And I have no reason to believe that he will not.”

“We must see to it that he understands the importance of her education,” the Master said with emphasis, before returning to Matilda. “Recite it for me, please. In any language you choose.”

Matilda cleared her throat and sat up very straight before choosing to recite the prayer in Tuscan:

“Brava, child. Well done. But until you learn what every line of that means and how it will change your life and the entire world around you, that prayer is meaningless. With consciousness, those words contain everything that any human being needs to know to find the kingdom of heaven on earth. Without consciousness, they are lost words, mumbled by rote. You will never again say that prayer as an absent bundle of words, do you understand? Now, we must get to work in earnest. Let me show you how this prayer relates to the rose petals…”

And the man known only as the Master began the work of instructing Matilda in the most hallowed teachings of the Book of Love, the good news left behind for all humanity by the Prince of Peace.

Matilda spent the late afternoon visiting the sacred sites in Lucca, of which there were many, joining her father for a tour of the great church of San Frediano. Their guide was a gentle and learned young priest called Anselmo, who was a native of Lucca and extremely well versed in the history of his town. His uncle, also called Anselmo di Baggio, was the reigning bishop of Lucca and a very powerful man in Bonifacio’s world. No doubt this young nephew was being groomed for a position of great importance in the Lucca community, as he came from such an influential family. The di Baggios were all very savvy and discreet members of the Order of the Holy Sepulcher who had learned wisely to integrate into the traditional Catholic power structures.

Anselmo the Younger explained that this church was named for a sixth-century bishop who built the first structure here with his own hands.

“We call him Frediano, in Tuscan, but his name was Finnian in his own country. He was from a place called Irlanda. Do you know where that is, Matilda?”

Matilda shook her head, listening in wonder. Irlanda sounded like one of the magical places from Isobel’s stories.

“It is a misty green island, very mysterious and ancient, beyond the lands of the Normans and Saxons. But it is also a very learned and holy place. Finnian ventured here as a pilgrim because he had heard of the sacred origins of Lucca from the teachings of a blessed man called Patrick, and he wanted to live in a place where the lessons of Jesus were their most pure.”

Matilda tried not to squirm through the solemn tour of the baptistery with its great stone font. But in truth, San Frediano held little excitement for her once the initial mystery of the foreign legend was over. Her real anticipation was for the church they were to visit next, for the Church of San Martino was the resting place of the
Volto Santo
, the Holy Face as carved by Nicodemus.

Anselmo recounted the colorful history of the arrival of this image in Lucca to Matilda and Bonifacio as they walked through the narrow streets toward San Martino.

“When the
Volto Santo
left the Holy Land, it arrived on the shores of Tuscany after many months at sea. Here it was unloaded with great care and then hitched to a cart pulled by two snow white oxen. The oxen were untamed, and they were left to follow their own instincts. It was believed by the custodians of the Holy Face that the hand of the Lord would guide the cart and deliver it to the place where divine will would choose for it to rest. A great many miracles were reported along the path that this holy item traveled. The oxen pulled for three days and nights, never stopping until they had arrived here, in the center of Lucca. We believe that the
Volto Santo
chose to come to Lucca because it was following the path taken by the Book of Love.”

Anselmo turned comically conspiratorial again, to amuse Matilda. “The initiated, our people of the Order, know that the
Volto Santo
wanted to be where the true teachings were, and these were happening only within the congregation that celebrated here at San Martino.”

They had arrived at the façade of San Martino’s, which had been dedicated in the name of Saint Martin of Tours since it was first con
structed, also by the Irish bishop Finnian, in the sixth century. What was left of it was unimpressive. And crumbling. Matilda did not think it looked at all suitable as a shrine for the very first piece of Christian art, carved by a man who looked into the face of our Lord after removing him from the cross! She pulled on her father’s sleeve.

“Papa?”

“Yes, my sweet?”

“We are very rich, are we not? Can we not give our people of Lucca enough money to build a very grand church for the Holy Face?”

Bonifacio roared with laughter as he scooped up his daughter. “Yes, we are very rich. And I would hope to stay that way by not giving away all our wealth, and certainly not to the Church!”

Matilda, who wasn’t a bit satisfied with this answer, squirmed out of her father’s arms and raced toward the entrance door.

The interior of San Martino’s was cramped and dark, and Matilda had to blink her eyes very quickly to adjust to the dim candlelight within. Without waiting for her father or Anselmo, she ran ahead to the main altar, not stopping until she was close enough to touch the most sacred image in all of Christendom.

She stood before it, transfixed. The image was life-sized, elegantly crafted by a sculptor of extraordinary skill. Nicodemus had coaxed the Lebanese cedar wood into graceful waves to form a robe that draped across both extended arms and down to the feet of the crucified Christ. His facial details, hair, and beard had been carefully stained to show his coloring. Our Lord was dark and beautiful. Waves of black hair fell to his shoulders, matched by a long, neatly groomed beard that forked slightly. He had long and slender fingers. But it was his eyes that arrested her: huge and black and heavy-lidded, they were eyes of great kindness and compassion, even as depicted in their final moments of suffering. Matilda had never seen anything more beautiful than the man who was before her on the cross. She looked into those great eyes and was certain that he was looking back at her.

“You are my daughter, in whom I am well pleased.”

Matilda gasped. The Holy Face had spoken to her. She closed her
eyes very tight and tried to listen, but there was nothing more to hear. She turned to see that her father and Anselmo were behind her by a number of paces. Anselmo was whispering to Bonifacio, no doubt in further explanation of the artwork and its history. Matilda did not hear them. She heard only the statue of her Lord Jesus Christ, and it had spoken. He was pleased with her.

She was not sure what she had done to please her Lord, but she was most determined to do something now. Thinking quickly, she remembered the golden baubles that Isobel had woven into her hair this morning. There were two of them, intricately worked in gold and given to her from the house of Lorraine upon her birth. They were extremely valuable. Surreptitiously, so that her father would not see, she began to wriggle the baubles from their resting place in her copper curls until she had them both in her hands.

Matilda smiled at the image who was well pleased and whispered back, “One day, I will build you a fine church for your Holy Face. I promise.”

She curtsied to the image, walking backwards so as not to turn her back in disrespect. When she reached the place where her father and Anselmo waited, she smiled at them sweetly. “It is very beautiful,” she said simply. She was not ready to share her experience of this place, not yet. And when she did, it would be first with Isobel. Issy would know why the Lord was pleased with her.

Bonifacio strode out of the church quickly. He had had enough religion for one day and was anxious to get back to his meetings with the men who were responsible for keeping this area of Tuscany secure. Following that, he had arranged a great hunting expedition as a reward to his most loyal soldiers, something he was very much looking forward to. Matilda walked slowly behind, hoping to get the young priest Anselmo alone. He had a nice face and a sweet smile. She liked him with the immediate instinct for human nature that is possessed by clever children. When her father was well ahead of them, she put her tiny hand against his palm.

“What is this, little princess?” Anselmo asked her kindly, looking down at the treasure she had placed in his hand.

“Shhh,” Matilda whispered. “This is my promise to the Holy Face, that I will one day build him a proper church. Take this gold and keep it for that day when I can bring you more.”

Anselmo looked at her carefully. She was, indeed, a most unusual child to give up such beautiful treasure for the glory of God. He placed his hand on her head. “Matilda of Canossa, you are a generous donor. I hope to one day guide the building of a greater church by the grace of your generosity.”

Matilda smiled at him, satisfied that she now had a worthy conspirator for her grand plan. “Good. Then we shall do it together. When I am older and can give my money freely as I wish.”

And turning to curtsy one final time to the Holy Face the six-year-old countess ran out the door and into the afternoon sun, yelling demands after her father to take her to Isobel immediately. The fierce Bonifacio, a man whose very name caused hardened warriors to quiver with their fear of him, stopped in his tracks before turning to laugh uproariously at the only human being alive from whom he would take orders.

Following the terrible time of crucifixion, it became unsafe for the family of our Lord to remain in Israel. His uncle, the blessed Joseph of Arimathea, worked quickly to find safety for Maria Magdalena, who was heavily pregnant with the savior’s heir, as well as the other children and some of their close followers.

The fair city of Alexandria was known for its learning and tolerance, a flourishing society where many beliefs and cultures lived together in harmony. It was close enough to be a quick and temporary solution, far enough to be safe. Madonna Magdalena needed to be in a comfortable location for the pending birth of her blessed child.

Joseph of Arimathea knew exceptional prosperity through his success as a tin trader, and it was under cover of his trading ships that he was able to transport the remainder of the holy family out of danger and into Egypt. It would be the second time that a Great Maria was forced to flee her homeland to protect the blessed child in her womb, the second Flight into Egypt.

During her confinement, Magdalena called for her trusted friend, the learned apostle known as Philip, to come attend her in Alexandria. He heeded her call, and during those months our lady read to him from the Book of Love that he might transcribe it perfectly under her guidance and direction. It was thus that a nearly perfect copy of the original words of our Lord was made by these two great disciples and teachers. Maria Magdalena would always keep the original Book of Love in her possession as long as she lived. But it was her desire that a copy be sent to James, the brother of Jesus, who remained in Jerusalem. The emerging Jerusalem church was in need of the teachings in their purest form that the Way might continue there.

James received the copy from Alexandria and held it safely in Jerusalem where it was contained within the sacred vessel carved by Nicodemus.

Philip left for his own fate in Sumeria, where he preached the Way for the rest of his own blessed life, teaching from the Book of Love as he had once transcribed it.

T
HE STORY OF
P
HILIP AND THE
B
OOK OF
L
OVE, AS TOLD IN THE
L
IBRO
R
OSSO

The subterranean stone chamber that served as the chapel of the Order of the Holy Sepulcher was nearly a thousand years old. It had been built by the first Christians, who practiced their faith here in secret, away from the prying eyes of the Romans. Matilda climbed gingerly down the steep stairs, holding tightly to Isobel, who walked ahead of her. The Master led them with an oil lamp, but the chamber proper had been prepared for their arrival by some of the novices, who had placed beeswax candles in the iron wall sconces. Shadows flickered all around. The stone walls of the chapel were blackened by candle smoke, and the heady fragrance of frankincense infused the thickened air with a dense sanctity.