The Expected One (24 page)

They had reached the rise of the hill, and the ruins of the once-great fortress lay ahead of them. In the presence of these massive stone walls that seemed to radiate the history of their surroundings, Maureen understood Jean-Claude’s point perfectly. Still, she was torn between her senses and her journalist’s need to authenticate all of her findings. “That’s a strange sentiment for a man who calls himself a historian,” she observed.

Now he laughed outright, a sound that echoed through the green valley below them. “I consider myself a historian, but not an academic. There’s a difference, particularly in a place like this. The academic approach doesn’t apply everywhere, Mademoiselle Paschal.”

Maureen’s expression must have given away that she wasn’t following him completely. He elaborated.

“You see, in order to hold the most prestigious titles in the academic world, you simply have to read all the right books and write the proper papers. When I was on a lecture tour in Boston, I met an American woman who had a doctorate in French history with an emphasis on the medieval heresies. She is now considered one of the great experts in the subject and has even written a university textbook or two. And do you know something funny? She has never been to France, not once. Not even to Paris, much less the Languedoc. Worse, she doesn’t feel it is necessary. In true academic form, she believes everything she needs is in books or documents available on university databases. The woman’s understanding of Catharism is about as realistic as reading a comic book, and twice as laughable. Yet she would be recognized publicly as a greater authority than any of us here because of the degrees she holds and the initials after her name.”

Maureen was listening as they stepped through the rocks and moved among the magnificent ruins. Jean-Claude’s point hit her hard. She had always thought of herself as an academic, yet her reporter’s experience had also driven her to seek out stories in their native environment. She couldn’t imagine writing about Mary Magdalene without visiting the Holy Land, and had insisted on touring Versailles and the revolutionary prison of the Conciergerie while researching Marie Antoinette. Now, even in the few days that she had spent surrounded by the living history of the Languedoc, she recognized that this was a culture that required experiential understanding.

Jean-Claude wasn’t finished. “Let me give you an example. You can read one of fifty versions of the tragedy here at Montsegur as written by historians. But look around. If you have never climbed this mountain or seen the place where the fire burned or observed how impenetrable these walls are, how would you ever understand it? Come, let me show you something.”

Maureen followed the Frenchman to the edge of a cliff, where the walls of the once-impenetrable fortress had crumbled. He pointed to a sheer and excruciatingly steep drop thousands of feet down the mountainside. The warm winds were rising, blowing her hair as Maureen tried to put herself in the position of a young Cathar girl in the thirteenth century.

“This spot is where the four escaped,” he explained. “Imagine it now as you stand here. In the dead of night, carrying the most precious relics of your people strapped to your body, weak after months of stress and starvation. You are young and terrified and know that while you may survive, every person you love in the world will be burned alive. With all of this on your mind, you are lowered down a wall into the bitter cold and nothingness of midnight, and there’s a strong possibility you will fall to your death.”

Maureen sighed heavily. It was a heady experience to stand here where the legends were alive and very real all around her.

Jean-Claude interrupted her thoughts. “Now imagine only reading about this account in a library in New Haven. It is a different experience, no?”

Nodding in agreement, Maureen answered, “Most definitely.”

“Oh, and one thing I forgot to mention. The youngest girl who escaped that night? She was quite possibly your ancestor. The one who later took the name of Paschal. In fact, they referred to her as La Paschalina until she died.”

Maureen was numb with the knowledge of yet another phenomenal Paschal ancestor. “How much do you know about her?”

“Just a little. She died at the monastery of Montserrat on the Spanish border as a very old woman, and some records of her life remain there. We know she married another Cathar refugee in Spain and had a number of children. It is written that she brought with her a priceless gift to the monastery, but the nature of that gift has never been revealed publicly.”

Maureen reached down and picked one of the wildflowers that grew in the crevices of the ruined walls. She walked to the edge of the cliff where the Cathar girl who would later take the name of La Paschalina had courageously descended the mountain as the last hope of her people. Tossing the tiny purple flower over the edge of the cliff, Maureen said a small prayer for the woman who may or may not have been her ancestor. It almost didn’t matter. With the story of these beautiful people and the gift of the land itself, this day had already changed her irrevocably.

“Thank you,” she said to Jean-Claude in little more than a whisper. He left her alone then, to contemplate how her past and her future were intertwined with this most ancient and enigmatic place.

Maureen and Jean-Claude had lunch in the tiny village at the base of Montsegur. As he had promised, the restaurant served food in the Cathar style. The menu was simple fare consisting primarily of fish and fresh vegetables.

“There is a misconception that the Cathars were strict vegetarians, but they did eat fish,” Jean-Claude explained. “They were very literal about certain elements in the life of Jesus. And as Jesus fed the multitudes with loaves and fishes, they believed that this meant they should include fish in their diet.”

Maureen found the food remarkably hearty and was enjoying herself immensely. Sinclair was right: Jean-Claude was a brilliant historian. Maureen had thrown countless questions at him as they walked down the mountain, and he responded to all of them patiently and with amazing insight. By the time they sat down to eat, she was happy to answer the questions he had for her.

Jean-Claude began to make inquiries about Maureen’s dreams and visions. Previously, this would have made her very uncomfortable, but these last days in the Languedoc had opened her mind on the issue. Here, visions like hers were treated as commonplace; they were simply a fact of life. It was a relief to talk about them with these accepting people.

“Did you have these visions as a child?” Jean-Claude wanted to know.

Maureen shook her head in the negative.

“Are you sure?”

“If I did, I have no memory of it. I didn’t have them until I went to Jerusalem. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. Please, go on.”

Maureen went into some detail, and Jean-Claude appeared to listen very closely, asking questions at intervals. His interest became concentrated as she described the crucifixion vision at Notre-Dame.

Maureen noticed. “Lord Sinclair also thought that vision was significant.”

“It is.” Jean-Claude nodded. “He told you about the prophecy?”

“Yes, it’s fascinating. But it concerns me a little that he seems to think I’m The Expected One of the prophecy. Talk about performance anxiety.”

The Frenchman laughed. “No, no. These things cannot be forced. You either are or you are not, and if you are, it will be revealed very soon. How long are you staying in the Languedoc?”

“We had allocated four days before going back to Paris for a few more nights. But I’m not sure now. There’s so much to see and learn down here. I’m playing it by ear.”

Jean-Claude looked somewhat pensive as he listened to her. “Did anything strange happen last night after the party? Anything out of the ordinary for you? Any new dreams?”

Maureen shook her head. “No, nothing. I was exhausted and I slept very well. Why?”

Jean-Claude shrugged as he called for the check. When he spoke, it was almost to himself. “Well, that narrows the field.”

“Narrows what field?”

“Oh, just that if you’re planning to leave us soon, we will have to see what we can do to determine if you are the ancestral daughter of La Paschalina — if you are indeed The Expected One who will lead us to the great secret treasure.”

He winked at Maureen playfully as he held out her chair and they prepared to leave the sacred ground that was Montsegur. “I’d better get you back before Bérenger has my head.”

…How does one begin to write about a time that changes the world?

I have waited so long to begin because I have always feared that this day would come and I would have to live it all again. I have seen it in my sleep these many years, over and over again, but it comes without leave to torment me. To bring it back with intention, has never been my choice. For while I have forgiven everyone who played a part in Easa’s suffering, forgiveness does not bring forgetting.

But that is as it should be, for I am the only one left who can tell what really came to pass during the days of darkness.

There are those who say Easa planned it, from the very first. This is not the truth. It was planned for Easa, and he lived it in his strength and his obedience to God. He drank from the cup that was handed to him with a courage and grace that has never been seen before or since, save in the form of his mother. Only His mother, the Great Mary, heard the call of the Lord with the same clarity, and only His mother answered that call with the same courage.

The rest of us were humbled to learn from their grace.

T
HE
A
RQUES
G
OSPEL OF
M
ARY
M
AGDALENE,
T
HE
B
OOK OF THE
T
IME OF
D
ARKNESS

T
amara Wisdom and Derek Wainwright appeared as any typical American tourist couple outside the walled fortress city of Carcassonne. When they met in the lobby of Derek’s hotel, he kissed Tammy passionately. Her smile was coy as she pushed him away gently.

“There will be plenty of time for that later, Derek.”

“Promise?”

“Of course.” She ran her hand along his back to affirm her pledge. “But you know what a workaholic I am. Once I get that out of my system, we’ll have the rest of the day to…play.”

“Right, let’s go. I’d better drive.”

Derek took Tammy’s hand and led her to the parking lot and his rented car. He eased out onto the perimeter street and drove around the walled city, turning onto a road that led deeper into the hills.

“You’re sure this is safe?” she asked him.

Derek nodded. “They all left for Paris this morning. All but…”

“But what?”

He looked as though he were about to tell her but reconsidered. “Nothing. There is one left here in the Languedoc, but he’s preoccupied today and there’s no chance he’ll walk in on us.”

“Care to elaborate?”

Derek laughed. “Not yet. It’s bad enough that I’m taking this chance at all. Do you know what the penalty is if I get caught?”

Tammy shook her head. “No, what? Double secret probation?”

He gave her a sidelong look. “Joke all you want, but these guys don’t play.” He drew his right index finger across his throat in a slashing motion.

“You’re not serious.”

“I am. The penalty for revealing Guild secrets to a non-Guild member is death.”

“Has it ever happened? Or is that just the bogeyman they create to increase the secret society mystique and control their members?”

“There’s a new Teacher of Righteousness — that’s what we call our leader — and this guy is extreme.”

Tammy thought about this seriously for a moment. Derek had confessed his Guild membership to her a few years ago in a drunken indiscretion, but then clammed up and refused to talk about it. She had wheedled more out of him last night at the party. Ultimately, the combination of alcohol and his long-frustrated desire for her had caused him to reveal that their headquarters were just outside Carcassonne. Or at least that’s what she thought had prompted Derek’s loose lips. He had even offered to show her the inner sanctum today. But if he was serious about the dire consequences of discovery, that was something Tammy did not want on her conscience.

“Listen, Derek, if this really is so dangerous, I don’t want to push you to do it. Really. I can use you as an anonymous source if I decide to mention the Guild in my projects. Let’s just go back to Carcassonne and have lunch. You can spill some beans to me there in the safety of a café in broad daylight.”

There. She had given him an easy exit. He surprised her by not accepting it.

“Oh, no. I want to show this to you. In fact, now I can’t wait to show this to you.”

Tammy was uneasy about the enthusiasm in his answer. “Why?”

“You’ll see.”

Derek parked behind a hedge, several hundred yards from the entrance to the grounds. They walked carefully along the road, veering off to a narrow and unpaved lane. They walked it for another hundred yards until the stone chapel came into view, the same church where Guild members had held religious services the night before.

“That’s the church. We’ll go in there afterward if you want to see it.”

Tammy nodded, content to follow and see where he was leading. She had known Derek for years, but it had always been as a casual acquaintance. She realized now that she honestly didn’t know him well enough to gauge what his true motives were. She thought originally that they were basic, primal male impulses, and those she could handle. But there was a determination in him suddenly, something else that she had never seen. It scared her. Thank God both Sinclair and Roland knew where she was.

He led her to a long bungalow behind the church, removed a key from his pocket, and opened the door. The unremarkable exterior of the building did not prepare Tammy for the sheer size and ornate interior of the Guild Hall. It was plush and gilded, every square foot of wall space was covered with artwork — and each was a copy of a Leonardo da Vinci painting. On the opposite wall, the first space seen upon entering the room, copies of two versions of Leonardo’s
Saint John the Baptist
hung side by side.

“My God,” Tammy whispered. “So it is true. Leonardo was a Johannite. A total heretic.”

Derek laughed. “By what standards? As far as the Guild is concerned, ‘Christians’ who follow Christ are the true heretics. We like to call him ‘The Usurper,’ and ‘The Wicked Priest.’ ” Derek made a 360-degree gesture in the direction of the artwork and spoke grandly, in a manner Tammy had never heard from him. “Leonardo da Vinci was the Teacher of Righteousness in his time, the leader of our Guild. He believed that John the Baptist was the only true messiah and that Jesus stole his position through the manipulation of women.”

“The manipulation of women?”

Derek nodded. “That’s a foundation of our tradition. Salome and Mary Magdalene plotted the death of our messiah in order to place their own false prophet on the throne. The Guild refers to both of them as whores. Always has, always will.”

Tammy looked at him incredulously. “Do you believe that? Damn, Derek, how invested are you in this philosophy? And how have you kept this a secret from me?”

Derek shrugged. “Secrets are our business. As for the philosophy, I was raised to believe it and studied the secret texts for years. It’s very convincing, you know.”

“What is?”

“The material we have. We call it
The True Book of the Holy Grail.
It’s been passed down since Roman times from original followers of the Baptist. It describes the events around John’s death in detail. You’d find it fascinating.”

“Can I see it?”

“I’ll get you a copy. I have one back in my hotel room.” There was more than a touch of insinuation in his latter statement.

Tammy made a mental note and tried not to cringe outwardly. She could certainly guess what Derek might expect in exchange for that particularly valuable document. She turned away from him, moving slowly through the room to look at the paintings.

“Notice what they all have in common?” Derek asked her.

“Other than they’re all by Leonardo?” Tammy shook her head. She wasn’t seeing the connection outside of the obvious one. “No. At first I thought they all depicted John the Baptist, but they don’t. That looks like a detail of
The Last Supper
over there, but that doesn’t make sense based on what you just told me. Why would you have that here if the Guild despises Jesus as a usurper and blames Mary Magdalene for John’s death?”

“This is why,” Derek said, holding his right hand in front of his face in a specific gesture. His index finger pointed toward the sky and his thumb curled upward, the other three fingers folded tightly down. Tammy looked and realized that one of the apostles in Leonardo’s famous fresco was making the same motion with his hand — and doing it in an almost threatening way in Jesus’ face.

“What does that mean?” Tammy asked. “I’ve seen it before, in the
John the Baptist
painting in the Louvre.” Tammy pointed to the copy on the wall. “That one there. I assumed it was a reference to heaven, pointing to the sky.”

Derek clucked at her in mock disappointment. “Come, come, Tammy. You should know that Leonardo was never obvious. We call this the ‘Remember John’ gesture, and it has multiple meanings. First, if you look closely, the fingers form a letter J, for John. The right index finger held up also represents the number one. So the total gesture means ‘John is the first messiah.’ Oh, and there’s one more important thing about the ‘Remember John’ gesture, and that is the relic.”

“You have a John relic?”

Derek’s grin was sly. “I wish they were here so I could show them to you, but the Teacher of Righteousness never lets them out of his possession. We have the bones of John’s right index finger, the same finger used to make the gesture that has been our password in public for a thousand years. It enabled knights and nobles to recognize each other discreetly in the middle ages, and we still use it today. John’s finger is used in our initiation ceremonies. And so is his head.”

This grabbed Tammy’s attention. “You have John’s
head
?”

Now Derek did laugh. “Yep. The Teacher of Righteousness shines it up every day. It’s at the center of all Guild rituals.”

“How do you know it’s really his? I thought his head was in Amiens, at the cathedral there.”

“Do you have any idea how many places have claimed Baptist remains? Trust me, we know that ours is the authentic relic. It’s been passed down from a long line. There’s a great story behind it, but I’ll let you read it in
The True Book of the Holy Grail.
Look, here’s more of the index finger. It shows up in each of these paintings.”

Even when discussing such an important subject, Tammy noted that Derek’s attention span seemed limited, and he skipped around from subject to subject. Was it intentional? Did he have an agenda? She hadn’t previously given him much credit for intelligence, but now she had a creeping feeling that she had underestimated him. Her mind was racing as she tried to remain cool. Was this guy a fanatic? How had she not noticed how entrenched he was? Tammy was trying not to be swamped with the sick notion that she was about to be in over her pretty raven head.

Derek led her through the paintings, pointing out the ‘Remember John’ gesture in each one. In the portraits of John, the Baptist himself was making the gesture. In
The Last Supper,
it was one of the apostles, a clearly agitated Thomas.

“Several of the apostles were followers of John long before Jesus came along,” Derek informed her. “What’s important about this version of
The Last Supper
is that Jesus is announcing that one of them will betray him. Thomas here is affirming that, and telling him why with the ‘Remember John’ gesture — this is in memory of John. John’s fate will become your fate. That’s what he’s saying with the index finger in the false prophet’s face. You’ll be martyred just as John was, and it’s payback.”

Tammy was shocked at this new and startling interpretation of one of the world’s most famous images. She couldn’t resist her next question.

“So you probably don’t believe that’s Mary Magdalene seated next to Christ in
The Last Supper.
”

Derek spat on the floor in reply. “That’s what I think of that theory, and of everyone who believes in it.”

Derek waved off
The Last Supper,
but he wasn’t nearly finished with Tammy’s art history lesson. He led her to the long wall that held two versions of Leonardo’s famous
Madonna of the Rocks
paintings and pointed first to the canvas on the right.

“Leo was commissioned to do a painting of the virgin and child for the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. Apparently, this wasn’t what the Confraternity of the Immaculate Conception wanted. They rejected it. But it has become a classic of our Guild, and we all have a version of this in our homes.”

The painting centered on a madonna with her right arm around an infant and her left hand over another baby that sat below her. An angel observed the scene. “Everyone thinks that’s Mary, but they’re wrong. The original title of the painting was
Madonna of the Rocks,
not
Virgin of the Rocks,
as it is sometimes now called. Look closely. That’s Elisabeth, the mother of John the Baptist.”

Tammy wasn’t convinced. “What makes you think so?”

“Guild tradition, first of all. We know it is.” The answer was arrogant in its certainty. “But there’s art history to back us up. Leonardo was in a huge fight with the Confraternity over payment for this painting, so he got back at them by making them think he was delivering the traditional scene they ordered. But in reality he painted a version of our entire philosophy to slap them in the face. He was wicked funny that way. A lot of Leonardo’s art was his way of taunting the Church and getting away with it because he was so much smarter than the idiot papists in Rome.”

Tammy tried not to show her surprise at Derek’s overt bigotry. She had never seen this side of him before, and it was making her increasingly uncomfortable. She felt in her pocket for the security of her cell phone. She considered putting out an SOS call if the situation got any creepier. But she was torn. As an author and a filmmaker she was being handed solid gold here — did she dare use it?

Derek was on a roll about his idol, Leonardo. “Did you know that the
Mona Lisa
is actually a self-portrait? Leonardo sketched himself and then turned it into the painting as we know it today. It was all a big joke for him. And see, the joke’s on us now as people wait in line for hours to see that painting. He hated women because of his mother, you know. He even increased the restrictions on females in the Guild as his way of punishing women for his own miserable childhood. That’s in an amendment to
The True Book of the Holy Grail.
You’ll see it.”