The Book of Love (16 page)

Unique to San Martino in Lucca was the legend inscribed in a vertical column along the length of the labyrinth, a pagan legend that on the surface had no business on the exterior of a Catholic cathedral and defied explanation. In three hexameters, it reads in translation from Latin,

HERE IS THE LABYRINTH THAT DAEDALUS THE CRETAN BUILT AND WHICH NO ONE CAN EXIT ONCE INSIDE. ONLY THESEUS WAS ABLE TO DO SO, THANKS TO ARIADNE’S THREAD.

Peter discovered in one source another very interesting allegation regarding Lucca. One obscure Italian reference claimed that the center of the labyrinth, now destroyed along with an image of Theseus, once contained the continuation of the legend, representing the moral of the fable:

AND ALL FOR LOVE.

That there was a perfect eleven-circuit labyrinth in Lucca couldn’t be a coincidence. That it was so similar to the Chartres labyrinth in terms of geometry and the design of their rounded paths couldn’t be
either. Specifically, Chartres and Lucca were connected in a more intimate way than the other labyrinths, almost as if the same person designed both.

The labyrinth had associations to sacred union as a result of the powerful and enduring Ariadne legend for several thousand years; Matilda’s manuscript indicated that this legend may even have been recognized by Jesus. However, evidence from the Middle Ages indicated that the monks who transcribed the Grecian labyrinth legends for posterity made a deliberate decision to change their focus. Rather than preserving the elaborate and powerful nuances of love and loss, the transcribing brothers rewrote the legends—inexplicably—as treatises of architecture. The presence of Ariadne was eradicated in total. This couldn’t be a coincidence.
Ariadne was erased from her own story.
By many accounts, including archaeological evidence, the legend originally existed for the purpose of showcasing the importance of Ariadne as the Lady of the Labyrinth who protects her man and the innocent people with her love. Yet her presence was completely, and quite possibly deliberately, eradicated in later versions.

In much the same way, Mary Magdalene was diminished and sometimes removed from the accepted chronicles of Jesus’ life, also by men of the Church. Peter began to work through a radical theory: Ariadne became an allegorical symbol for Mary Magdalene for the “heretics” who would not let her importance die. Theseus’ survival—his reemergence from the labyrinth after facing death—was a metaphor for resurrection. Ariadne, who protected him with her love, was the first to witness his glory as the savior of his people, just as Magdalene, who anointed Jesus, was the first to witness the glory of his resurrection as the Savior of his people. The union of Theseus and Ariadne could represent the love of Jesus and Mary Magdalene; their story would allow the heretics to depict their teachings in plain sight. Ariadne’s thread was symbolic of Mary Magdalene’s devotion, how she brought the Book of Love to Europe and dedicated her life to its preservation. By following this thread of truth, like Theseus, we can emerge from the darkness of the Minotaur’s lair and find the light of freedom.

The following morning, after very little restless sleep, Peter resumed his search and found a reference to another church in Italy that struck him hard. San Michele Maggiore in the northern Italian city of Pavia was built in Matilda’s time and would have been in her territories. A labyrinth was installed in the chancel there at some point in the twelfth or thirteenth century, now mostly destroyed. But drawings existed of the original structure when it was intact, and he was able to pull them out of the Biblioteca Apostolica in the Vatican. It was a perfect eleven-circuit labyrinth, as at Chartres and Lucca. In the center was the legend, “Theseus went in and killed the hybrid monster.” Here the monster was specifically not the Minotaur but a centaur—a creature who was half horse and half man. There appeared to be a trend in the labyrinth designs of the Middle Ages, lasting into the Renaissance, which replaced the Minotaur with the centaur. Was this deliberate? Was it a reference to slaying some other kind of beast?

Could the “hybrid monster” be the Church that was beginning its persecution of the “pure” Christians in the Middle Ages? Peter contemplated this idea for a moment. Over the last two years, this was precisely what his Church had become for him. It was a hybrid of beauty and pain, truth and lies. It was an institution that he still believed in with a great passion half the time, and was completely in despair over the other half.

Mantua
1052

“I
T WAS
no accident, Isobel. I am ashamed to say that I am related to that wicked wretch who wears the crown of Germany.” Beatrice raged as she paced her chambers in agitation.

Bonifacio’s suspicious death on May 6, 1052, caused grave consternation in Tuscany. Many whispered that the German emperor, Henry III, was behind it. The “hunting accident” was looking more like an
assassination by a greedy monarch who had been eaten alive with envy of the great Bonifacio for many years. And yet while the obstacle of Bonifacio had been removed, Henry, who was Beatrice’s cousin, had perhaps not considered his plan quite as carefully as he should have.

“But I have my satisfaction. The pope is also my kinsman and he has taken action to protect Matilda and me. Henry will not dare to confiscate Bonifacio’s wealth now, as the risks of repercussions are too great. The Tuscan vassals will rise up against him. And”—Beatrice lowered her voice to ensure that no one but Isobel would hear her—“we have devised a plan that cannot fail.”

“I pray it is so, my lady.” Isobel was secretly terrified for Matilda and had to trust that Beatrice would do the right thing to protect her.

Beatrice continued, a smile of satisfaction curling her lips as she explained her strategy. “Pope Leo has arranged for me to become immediately engaged to Godfrey of Lorraine.”

Isobel gasped. She had not expected this. The idea was controversial for many reasons, not the least of which was Godfrey’s open hatred of the emperor. He had been publicly rebellious to the corrupt monarch, so it was deeply insulting to Henry for the pope to bestow Bonifacio’s property on Godfrey of Lorraine in the guise of protecting Beatrice and her child. But there was a thornier issue to be addressed.

“But my lady, Godfrey of Lorraine is your first cousin. This is a violation of Church law.”

Beatrice had already thought this through. She was proving to be far shrewder than Isobel had ever believed. “We have agreed to take vows of celibacy before consecrating the marriage in any Church. That is fine with me, as no man will ever touch me again now that my Bonifacio is gone.” She softened for a moment, looking like a sincerely grieving widow. “You of all people must understand that, Isobel.”

Isobel did understand. For while Beatrice didn’t practice the sacred laws of hieros-gamos as they did in the Order, she was well aware of them. Bonifacio had been her beloved in the most sanctified sense, and she would mourn him for the rest of her life.

“This is strictly an issue of convenience.” The noble mask of strength
had returned. “Matilda needs a powerful defender to protect her territories. As a woman, she cannot inherit on her own. But I have called you in here to tell you one more thing, Isobel.”

Isobel and Beatrice had never had a close relationship. Indeed, Matilda’s mother was deeply jealous of her daughter’s greater affections for her nurse. So while Isobel suspected that Beatrice held some motive for informing her of her plan, she had certainly not expected what came next.

“To ensure the protection of my daughter, the pope has determined that Matilda should be engaged to Godfrey’s son, the future duke of Lorraine, to which I have agreed.”

Isobel knew that she was powerless to affect this decision, but it made her heart sink deeply and she was forced to stifle the tears. To surrender a female child to an arranged marriage was blasphemous within the teachings of the Order, for whom the power of true love was the highest sacrament. Didn’t Beatrice realize that she had just delivered a life sentence of misery on her special, magical little girl?

But by the time Beatrice broke the news to Isobel, it had all been irrevocably arranged. The exquisite little child-countess of Canossa was betrothed to the young man who was already known by the unfortunate nickname of Godfrey the Hunchback.

When Beatrice’s cousin, Pope Leo IX, died unexpectedly in the spring of 1054, the fortunes of Matilda and her mother shifted once again, this time with severe repercussions. Henry III stepped in immediately like the vulture that he was to lay claim to “his” massive feudal estates in Italy. Beatrice’s new husband, Duke Godfrey, abandoned her to protect his own holdings in Lorraine, which were threatened simultaneously in a clever piece of strategy implemented by Henry. With absolutely no means of protection, Beatrice and her daughter were taken into custody by the German king, who had crowned himself the Holy Roman Emperor.

Henry III transported Beatrice and Matilda in heavy custody; Ma
tilda was no longer an heiress. In one imperial declaration, she had lost everything her father’s family had built over four generations. The emperor announced that Beatrice and Matilda would live by his charity and command at the German court of Bodsfeld unless or until he decreed otherwise. They were prisoners, abducted by a greedy and narcissistic monarch who held all the advantages.

Although she was still a little girl, the injustice of such oppressive tyranny would not be lost on the nine-year-old Matilda.

It was all too much. Matilda had not only lost her beloved father, her inheritance, and her home, but she was now exiled from the most consistent parental love she had ever known. Isobel, who was not allowed any access to her young charge once she had been abducted, returned to Lucca to pray for the safe deliverance of her beloved child.

Bodsfeld, Germany
1054

M
ATILDA AWOKE
with a start. She blinked at the first signs of gray morning light that were filtering in through the windows. Germany was cold and dark in late October. There was no golden sunshine, no Tuscan warmth to relieve any of the pain of loss that she had suffered in her year and a half of captivity thus far. She hated Germany, and she hated the man who brought her here, hated that he had killed her father and stolen her inheritance, hated that he had humiliated her mother and reduced her to the status of a beggar. Most of all, she hated his child, the evil little troll who was her six-year-old cousin and the eventual heir to the throne of Germany. That one little boy could inflict such terror and misery was almost beyond understanding, but this
in-fans terribilis
, also called Henry, was capable of anything and got away with everything. His otherwise stern and self-righteous French mother doted upon him with an obsession that bordered on idiocy.

As Matilda raised her head, she was reminded of just how wicked
her younger cousin could be. She felt the stickiness first on the back of her neck. Not again. Raising her hands to her hair, she felt with a sickening thud of her heart that her once-beautiful copper curls were matted down with a thick, gummy substance. She brought her fingers to her face to smell the offending goo that had been poured into her hair. Honey. Mixed with something else, something black and oily that would no doubt harden and destroy her curls.

“Mama!”

The only positive thing that had come from Matilda’s captivity was her enforced closeness with her mother, Beatrice. Each was all the other now had. Matilda had come to learn that her mother was far stronger and more educated than she had ever suspected, and she realized that Beatrice’s subservience to her father had been an issue of respect and choice, rather than weakness. Throughout their captivity, Beatrice shared possible political options with her daughter, advising her that they still had allies throughout Europe. Despite Godfrey of Lorraine’s apparent abandonment of them, he was a strong and clever man, and he knew if Beatrice and Matilda were free, he would be restored to his own holdings in northern Italy. Indeed, he had spies from Lorraine in the castle and had smuggled notes of encouragement to Beatrice. He was working to create a strategy for their release. It was slow, but it was under way; they were down, but they were not defeated.

In turn, Beatrice came to realize just how gifted and strong her single surviving child was, which gave her even greater hope for the future. Matilda was every bit the worthy heir of Bonifacio’s territories. Perhaps the time in captivity had even been good for her, hardening her into more of a warrior for justice and giving her a harsh but necessary education in politics.

Upon hearing her daughter cry out, Beatrice came quickly from the adjoining room where she had been immersed in her embroidery. They were imprisoned, but they were captive in a palace where they were not treated poorly. Matilda’s mother found refuge in working with her hands here, as the task helped to quiet her mind and allowed her to think. She had attempted to school Matilda in the finer points of
needlework, but her daughter had no interest in women’s domestic craft. It felt like surrender to her, and she was not ever going to surrender, not in this place. Ever.

“That horrid Henry has poured honey in my hair again!”

Matilda didn’t cry. She wouldn’t give her cousin the satisfaction of seeing her weep as a result of his cruel pranks. Besides, he had done this before. This time she was more concerned. The last time, the honey had washed out and her glorious hair had remained intact and unharmed. This time Henry had mixed the honey with some other substance to make the concoction more destructive, something she could not identify. But it felt like it was beginning to harden in her hair, and she was panicked.

“Hurry, Mother. We have to try to wash it out before it hardens more. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of making me cut my hair.”

Beatrice was still very capable of garnering compliance from servants, even in captivity. She called for a tub of warmed water and some of the heavy soap made from the roots of plants that were cut in the Ardennes forest by the locals. This soap was the detergent used to clean clothing, but it would be necessary to try something of this strength if she was going to save her daughter’s legendary hair.