The Book of Love (54 page)

Maureen was still on the ground, on her knees with the Book of Love clutched against her. She was reeling with the light and the visions but beginning to feel that she was coming back into her body once more. She had to get out of here, had to find a way to let the world know that the Book of Love was embedded in the stone and glass of this astonishing monument to the truth, that it was available to anyone who wanted to view it, experience it, feel it—and it always had been. The most valuable wisdom in human history had been hidden in plain
sight for eight hundred years. And the Church knew it. By covering the labyrinth, they hoped to obscure the tool that was needed by the average person to crack the code and read the book.

She looked up and saw that the henchmen were still in place, although they stood back from her more than before. Because of their menacing hoods, it was impossible to determine where their eyes were, but they both appeared to be looking at the ground, not at her. As she climbed slowly to her feet, Maureen caught a glimpse of Father Girolamo de Pazzi. He was staring into space, past her, with a most haunted expression on his face. Maureen heard Easa one final time as she came into her full, waking consciousness. His melodic voice in her ear said simply,
“Love conquers all.”

She looked down at the priceless item in her hands, feeling its power recede back into the Book. The final page held a perfect drawing of Solomon’s labyrinth, the eleven-circuit model that graced both Chartres and Lucca; it was the symbol of geometric perfection that allowed men and women to access God in their own temple space, wherever that might be in the world. The blue light faded here last, the remainder of its power absorbed back into the Book of Love.

Maureen glanced at the old man who had brought her here under such menacing circumstances. He looked at her now with rheumy eyes that were filled with tears. When he spoke, this time, his raspy voice was a whisper. “That did not happen with Lucia Santos.”

Whether Father Girolamo de Pazzi had seen the same visions or had been granted visions of his own, Maureen would never know. But by the look on his face, it appeared that he had been changed by what had occurred in the crypt.

The sound of pounding, a loud thumping from above, startled everyone in the room. Through the ancient stone, a male voice shouting Maureen’s name could be heard, muffled somewhat by the thickness of the walls. But not so much that Maureen could not tell whom the voice belonged to.

Bérenger Sinclair. He sounded like he was going to break down the door of the crypt.

The henchmen looked at Girolamo de Pazzi, who shook his head slowly. He said to Maureen simply, “Go.”

She looked at the miraculous book in her hands for a final time. Putting it down was the hardest thing she had ever had to do in her life. She knew that holding it had changed her for eternity. In her own way, she had become the human embodiment of Chartres Cathedral during these moments, and of the Book itself. She had taken all of it into her body, mind, and spirit while here in this place.

Later, Destino would help her to understand just how perfectly the stars had aligned when she released the energy of the Book of Love. Where she stood in the crypt was directly over the
wouivre
, the pulse point of the planet. It was the summer solstice, the longest day of the year. She had started the day in the labyrinth, and done so with her family of spirit as well as her most beloved. She was in a singularly powerful place to unlock the secrets of the Book of Love and release them in the place where they most belonged: in Chartres Cathedral, the temple that was built specifically to express them.

Maureen Paschal kissed the cover of the book, the singular, perfect document that had been created by the hand of Jesus Christ, and returned it to its resting place in the jeweled casket. She turned her back on Father Girolamo and simply walked away. She paused as she passed the ancient well, certain that she heard whispering from its depth. An ethereal female voice floated up, and Maureen was almost certain she heard it say,
“Merci, merci beaucoup,”
before releasing a contented sigh. Maureen said a little prayer for the spirit of the tragic Modesta, hoping that she was now at rest, before climbing the stairs and opening the door to the man who had been chosen by God at the dawn of time to be the twin of her soul.

Girolamo de Pazzi remained motionless as he watched Maureen retreat. He would never understand why it was that the Lord had chosen to reveal his light to such women, or why he remained outside this spe
cial love that females like Lucia Santos and Maureen Paschal were so easily able to access.

And now, he understood the meaning of the prophecy that had haunted him for so long. The time returns.

He reached into the deep pocket of his robe and pulled out the crystal reliquary that contained the lock of Saint Modesta’s hair. Through all the centuries, its red-gold color had not faded. He gazed at it for a moment, then lowered his head and sobbed.

Chartres
present day

B
ack in the safety of her hotel room, Maureen allowed herself to relax in Bérenger’s embrace. He let her cry, long and hard, as he held her gently and stroked her hair. When she quieted, he sat back and looked at her carefully.

“What’s wrong?” she asked him. “I’m a mess, aren’t I?”

He laughed softly. “No, you’re just the opposite. I didn’t think I could ever find you more beautiful than I already do, but you’re positively radiant.”

She shared with him all that had transpired in the crypt, struggling to find words that could express the depth of what she had experienced. “I wish you could have seen it, Bérenger. I wish you could know what it is like to hold something so sacred.”

“But I already do,” he whispered, as he pulled her back into his arms, and blended his spirit with hers through the depth of his kiss.

Paris
present day

P
ETER LISTENED INTENTLY
as Marcelo Barberini and Tómas DeCaro took him through the missing pieces of the larger puzzle. There were moments when he was stunned, and others when he could not believe that he had missed something so obvious. Pope Urban VIII was the mastermind behind the rebuilding of St. Peter’s, and the primary patron of the genius of Gianlorenzo Bernini. He was the man who was determined to relocate the remains of Matilda of Tuscany to a place of ultimate power and authority in the middle of the Vatican, where she belonged, across from the masterpiece created by her descendant, Michelangelo Buonarotti.

The birth name of Pope Urban VIII was Maffeo Barberini. The Cardinal Barberini in Peter’s presence was descended from the same exalted Italian family and was a grandnephew many generations over of that Tuscan pope who hailed from a powerful Florentine dynasty. He was the pope who lived and worked in the heretical regions of France as a papal nuncio, the pope who was educated by the early Jesuits, the pope who canonized both Ignatius Loyola and his right-hand man, Francis Xavier, for what they brought with them from Spain. He was the first pope to work within the presence of the Book of Love and all that it contained.

“Urban the Eighth was driven to redesign elements of St. Peter’s Basilica in emulation of what occurred in Chartres Cathedral. So he brought Bernini in to create such sculpture, to preserve the legacy of our people within the very walls of the Vatican.”

Cardinal Barberini went on to explain that the legend of the Libro Rosso had obsessed this pope throughout his career. The secret nature of the Book of Love, and his inability to unlock it, was a driving force behind his papacy and his life. Believing that Matilda of Tuscany held the key, he had her remains brought to Rome with the hope that they would serve as holy relics; he interred them intentionally in the center of St. Peter’s for that reason, and because he believed that she was as
rightfully a part of the Church structure as her beloved, Gregory VII, had been.

Peter was connecting the dots. “So there has long been a faction in the Vatican that knows the truth of the Book of Love? And protects it?”

“Protects it as best as we can.” Barberini shook his head sadly. “It depends on the power and how it shifts. My own family endured years of exile following the death of Maffeo, Urban the Eighth, as his successor was a conservative who opposed the true teachings.”

“And my family, of course, endured the same.” This was Tómas DeCaro speaking. Peter smiled at him, aware as he was that this man was a descendant of the infamous Borgia family, a family with their own stories to tell about lies and truths.

DeCaro continued. “But we are at critical mass, as I think you are aware. Peter my boy, what will transpire tomorrow will force all of us to make critical decisions about our careers and our future. We convened here in Paris to create safe distance from Rome, in the event that we have to make a counterannouncement regarding the Arques matrial.”

“Anything could happen tomorrow,” Barberini explained. “And we need to be prepared to go public if there is a cover-up. Are you with us?”

Peter had never been more certain of anything in his life. “Yes,” he replied, shaking each man’s hand firmly in turn. “The Truth Against the World.”

Chartres
present day

T
HE PHONE WOKE
Maureen—and Bérenger beside her—very early the next morning. It had been an extraordinary night of revelations and confessions. Maureen had discovered that Peter, receiving her voice mail, had realized quickly that something suspicious was happening in Chartres. He had called Sinclair and sent him in search of Maureen at
the crypt. Maureen and Bérenger had spent the rest of the night together, through her tears and explanations and apologies, through his forgiveness, and ending blissfully in an ecstatic union of passion and promises.

“Maureen, turn on the television.” Peter’s voice over the cell phone was highly agitated. “There is a press conference on live, from Rome. Regarding the Arques gospel. Prepare yourself.”

“For what?” Her heart was in her throat.

Peter sighed heavily across the airwaves. “I’m not certain. None of us are. That’s the problem. I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”

Maureen found the remote and handed it to Bérenger, unfamiliar as she was with French television. He quickly found the live broadcast on a BBC affiliate, in English. A reporter with an Oxbridge accent was giving the history of the Arques gospel and its “alleged” discovery in France by an American writer a few years ago. The writer, Maureen Paschal, had written a controversial best-selling book based on the discovery and her often outrageous, and decidedly amateur, interpretation of its contents.

Bérenger growled at the television but said nothing. Maureen was frozen as she watched the reporter continue to synopsize the path of the Arques material over the previous two years. It had been turned over to the Vatican and had been the subject of intense scrutiny by the finest theological minds in the world, working in combination with scientists to date and authenticate the material. Cameras zoomed in on linenlike fragments of paper with Greek inscription, causing Maureen to gasp and grab Bérenger’s arm.

“Do you see what I see?”

He nodded, not taking his eyes off the screen. “What’s going on, Maureen? What are they doing?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered back. “But here’s what I do know. That document is not the gospel that we found in France.”

Maureen wasn’t an expert, but finding Mary Magdalene’s lost gospel was not something that one forgot. The appearance of those scrolls—their perfection, their preservation—was etched into her
memory in perfect detail. And what was appearing on the screen, the documents shown to the press at this media circus, was absolutely not what she had discovered.

The spokesperson for the Church approached the podium and began to speak, as Bérenger and Maureen watched in a combination of horror and shock. They were here today to authenticate this magnificent document, to verify that this gospel was, in fact, written by Mary Magdalene to the best of their ability to authenticate it. But most exciting of all, this document was in essence a beautiful retelling of the gospel of John. Mary Magdalene was indeed a blessed woman and a saint, just as the Church had always said. The proof was all right here, the proof that her word was entirely in accordance with the scriptural teachings of the New Testament as accepted by Catholics since the earliest days of the Church. It was a day to rejoice. It was a day to put to rest all the ridiculous speculations about Mary Magdalene that had become such a part of misguided popular culture over recent years. Mary Magdalene had spoken once and for all, and her words were definitive—and in keeping with Church doctrine in total.

Expert witnesses were then interviewed, and they meticulously pointed out numerous places on the papyrus that were identical to the material in John’s gospel.

Maureen had stopped listening. This was beyond anything that she had anticipated. Yes, she knew that the idea that the Church would ever actually authenticate the true Magdalene material was unlikely, maybe even impossible. But she thought, at worst, that they would ignore it, bury it, or—the most likely outcome—call it a forgery. But this…to fabricate an entire gospel in order to lie about it at this level was beyond any expectation she could have ever had.

“You realize what this is about, don’t you?” Bérenger found his voice, his utterly outraged voice. “This is about discrediting your work entirely by making you look like a complete liar.”

Maureen nodded. “I know.” She took a deep breath, and added, “But I also know that it’s not about me, and it’s not even about Mary. It’s about the Book of Love. They know that I will write about it, that I will
tell the world everything I know. And if they can destroy my credibility before I do that, then perhaps nobody will care about the truth.”

Maureen forced herself to breathe. She would weather this storm as she had all the others. Hadn’t Easa told her that faith and fear could not exist in the same place at the same time? In this situation, she would, as she always had, choose faith.

Maureen and Bérenger walked with Destino along the picturesque river called the Eure, on the edge of the property that had belonged to the Order for eight hundred years. Destino lectured them gently.

“You should not be upset about this new development. The opposite is true. You should embrace it as God’s will. It is good that the Church does not authenticate the Arques Gospel, just as it is good that they will repudiate the existence of the Book of Love.”

Maureen was shocked by this stance, and more than a little confused. “What am I missing here? How can this possibly be a good thing?”

“Faith,” Destino said simply. “You see, if the Church authenticates the Arques Gospel, or the Book of Love, nobody has to think about it. They don’t have to let it into their hearts and their spirits and decide for themselves if it feels like the truth or not. They don’t have to push themselves to operate from a place of absolute faith. There is no risk, and therefore no spiritual gain. All that is taken away from them, which is a tremendous disservice. We want people to think and feel for themselves, not to be led like sheep into what they believe. Be grateful for this day; God has given it to you for good reason. And he has given it to the people of the world for good reason, that their faith will be tested. And those who recognize the truth in spite of all the opposition will be greatly rewarded in their hearts, minds, and spirits.”

Maureen nodded her acceptance of his wisdom. She knew he was right, but it might be a while before she could accept this most recent encounter with the Church as a positive force in her life. Destino looked
at her knowingly and shook his finger at her. “Thy will be done, Madonna Maureen. You need some practice in the second petal of the labyrinth. It is that will,” he said, pointing heavenward, “and not ours at work here. Surrender to it, and you will find the peace that eludes you.”

They walked in silence for a moment before Destino began to speak again. He filled in the history for them, of how Conn and the Master had come here to Chartres with the Libro Rosso, had joined forces with the existing Cathedral school, and had been the masterminds behind the extensive design of the cathedral, passing on their passion and knowledge to the succeeding generations, who were responsible for the magnificent monument that existed today. He pointed toward the north, where the two enormous spires rose to the sky.

“Do you know why the spires are mismatched? Do you think that such a thing was an accident or caused by lack of intention? Of course you do not think this, as you are initiated. You know that every aspect of this temple is in harmony with the true teachings. So here I will tell you just one of the thousands of secrets about Chartres Cathedral. The spire on the left is known as the Spire of the Sun, or the Spire of El. It represents God in his male creator aspect, as that spire is three hundred sixty-five feet long. Thus each foot correlates to a day of the solar year. The spire to the right is known as the Spire of the Moon, or the Spire of Asherah. It represents God in her female creator aspect, and as such it is twenty-eight feet shorter than the other, twenty-eight representing the days in the lunar month. When you enter the Western Portal at Chartres, you walk between the complementary principles of our father and mother, on earth as it is in heaven.”

He went on to explain that Chartres endured yet another catastrophic fire in 1194, one so terrible that the lead from the structure melted and destroyed the stone walls, causing them to split. Yet despite the devastation, the entire western façade, with its two divine towers, was spared, as was one other element of the cathedral: the stained glass window of the Blue Madonna. The people of Chartres, realizing that this was a sign from the heavens, dedicated themselves to the reconstruction of this monument to the divine in its purest and most bal
anced form, and worked from the Libro Rosso to create it as it stood today, telling each of the stories in stained glass and sculpture.

“The Blue Madonna, you know who she is, no?” Destino asked them.

“Notre Dame,” Bérenger replied.

“Yes, but which one?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Maureen said. “They’re all one, aren’t they? Whether it’s the original Notre Dame, who is Asherah—the Holy Spirit—or the Mother Mary, or Mary Magdalene or Sarah-Tamar or any of their saintly descendants, they all represent the divine female essence.”

“Yes, yes, you are correct. But I have a little surprise for you as this is a trick question. Come inside and I will show you something.”

They followed Destino into a large bungalow-style building that they had not entered upon arrival. It was an ancient structure, part of an old monastery that once stood on these grounds. The interior was stunning, as the walls were covered from floor to ceiling with what appeared to be medieval tapestries, tapestries that illustrated the hunt for the unicorn.

“Are these copies of the famous tapestries?”

Destino laughed. “No. The famous tapestries are copies of these. There were two sets made, one for the Order and the other for Anne of Brittany. She is an important woman in our history, but one we will speak of later. We have many biographies to write, Maureen. I shall keep your pen busy for the rest of your long life, if you will allow yourself to become the new scribe of the Order’s history.”