The Expected One (29 page)

Familiar portraits of historical and religious figures filled the screen as Tammy continued.

“Some of them may surprise you. Charlemagne. King Arthur. Robert the Bruce. Saint Francis of Assisi.”

“Wait a minute. Saint Francis of Assisi?”

Tammy nodded. “You bet. His mother, Lady Pica, was born in Tarascon. Pure Cathar stock of the Sarah-Tamar line, from the noble family Bourlemont. That’s how he got his name, you know. He was born Giovanni, but his parents called him Francesco because he reminded them so much of his mother’s French-Cathar side of the family. Have you ever been to Assisi?”

Maureen shook her head. Every new revelation was astonishing to her, overwhelming. She watched in fascination as images of the Italian village of Assisi, the home of the Franciscan movement, filled the screen.

“You need to see it; it’s one of the most magical places on earth. And the spirit of Saint Francis and his partner, Saint Clare, is still very much alive there. I believe they were reliving the Jesus and Mary Magdalene roles. But look closely at the artwork in the Basilica of St. Francis. The Italian master Giotto dedicated an entire chapel of art to Mary Magdalene. It contains a mural of Mary Magdalene arriving on the shores of France following the crucifixion. He was definitely making a statement. And there is a lot of Cathar sentiment in what we think of as Franciscan thought.”

She paused on Giotto’s portrait of Saint Francis receiving the stigmata from heaven.

“Francis is the only saint on record to manifest all five points of the stigmata. Why? The bloodline. He is a descendant of Jesus Christ. I think there is an argument that any authenticated stigmatist is probably from the bloodline. But what’s important about Francis is that he has all five. And no one else has ever had that.”

Maureen was counting, trying to keep up with Tammy. “Both palms, both feet — that’s four — and…?”

“The right side. Where the centurion pierced Jesus with the spear. But I have to correct you. The truest authentic stigmata does not occur on the palms, but on the wrists. Contrary to popular belief, Christ wasn’t nailed by his hands. He was nailed through the wrist bones. The hands aren’t strong enough to support the weight of the body.

“So while stigmata have been authenticated in the hands, like with Saint Padre Pio, it is wrist stigmata that really cause the Church to snap to attention. That’s what makes Francis here so important. Although artists like Giotto show the stigmata in the hands for dramatic effect, historical accounts tell us a different story. Francis had all five points, including the wrists.”

Tammy released the pause button to reveal the next image, the golden statue of Joan of Arc in Paris. The footage cut to another Joan image, the statue in Saunière’s garden that they had viewed two days prior.

“Remember when Peter asked me about this Joan statue? He said the world thinks of her as a symbol of conventional Catholicism. Well, here is why she is anything but that.”

Tammy clicked to a portrait of Joan of Arc holding her trademark “Jhesus-Maria” banner.

“Christians have long believed that Joan’s motto was a reference to Christ and his mother because her banner said “Jhesus-Maria.” But it wasn’t. It was a reference to Christ and Mary Magdalene, which is why she hyphenated the name, to show them joined together. Jesus and his wife, who were Joan’s ancestors.”

“But I thought she was a peasant. A…shepherdess.” Maureen groaned out loud, the realization striking as she said the word.

“Exactly. A shepherdess. And what about her name? ‘Of Arc’ indicates she had some association with this region, Arques, yet she was born in Domrémy. Joan of Arques — it’s a reference to her bloodline. And to her dangerous legacy. Berry told you about the prophecy, right? About The Expected One?”

Maureen nodded slowly. “I don’t think the world is ready for this. I don’t think I am ready for this.”

Tammy hit pause and turned her full attention to Maureen. “I need you to listen to the rest of Joan’s story, because it’s important. How much do you know about her?”

“Probably what most people in the world know. She fought to restore the dauphin to the throne of France, she led battles against the English. She was burned at the stake as a witch although everyone knows that she wasn’t…”

“She was burned at the stake because she had visions.”

Maureen was weighing it all, trying to figure out where Tammy was going. She still wasn’t quite following, so Tammy explained with emphasis.

“Joan had visions, divine visions. And she was bloodline. What does that mean to you?”

Tammy didn’t wait for her answer. “Joan was The Expected One, and everybody knew it. She was going to fulfill the prophecy. She had visions that would have led her to the Magdalene Gospel. That’s why they had to silence her permanently.”

Maureen was flabbergasted. “But…was Joan’s birth date the same as mine?”

“Yes, but you won’t see it written that way historically. It’s usually shown as sometime in January. It was deliberately obscured in an effort to protect her true identity, both as a royal bastard and as the long-awaited Grail princess.”

“How do you know this? Is there documentation that backs it up?”

“Yes. But you have to stop thinking like an academic. You have to read between the lines because it’s all there. And don’t discount the local legends. You’re Irish, you know the power of the oral traditions and how they are handed down. The Cathars were no different than the Celts; in fact, there is a ton of evidence that those two cultures blended throughout France and Spain. They protected their traditions by not writing them down and not leaving evidence for their enemies. But the legend of Joan as The Expected One is prevalent here when you scratch the surface.”

“I thought the English forces executed Joan.”

“Wrong. The English arrested Joan, but it was the French clergy who prosecuted her and insisted on her death. Joan’s tormentor was a cleric called Cauchon. That’s a big joke in these parts, as ‘cochon’ means ‘pig’ in French. Well, it was that swine who extracted Joan’s confession and then twisted the evidence to force her martyrdom. Cauchon had to kill Joan before she was able to fulfill her role as The Expected One.”

Maureen was silent, listening intently as Tammy continued. “And Joanie wasn’t the last shepherdess to die. Do you remember the statue of the saint in Rennes-le-Château? The girl carrying a lamb?”

“Saint Germaine.” Maureen nodded. “I had a dream about her that night.”

“That’s because she’s another daughter of the vernal equinox and the resurrection. She is depicted with a paschal lamb for obvious reasons, but also with a young ram, representing her birth at the beginning of Aries.”

Maureen remembered the statue well. She had been very moved by the solemn face of the young shepherdess.

“Her mother was of high rank in the bloodline, the Marie de Negre of her time. When Germaine was an infant, her mother died very mysteriously. Germaine was raised by an abusive foster family who murdered her in her sleep when she was in her late teens.”

Tammy took Maureen’s hand, suddenly very serious. “Listen to me, Maureen. For a thousand years there have been people who would kill to stop the discovery of Mary’s gospel. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

The gravity of the situation began to impress itself upon Maureen. She suddenly felt very cold as Tammy drove the point home.

“There are still people who would kill to stop the fulfillment of that prophecy. If those people believe that you are The Expected One, you may be in serious danger.”

Tammy had had the foresight to bring a bottle of fine local wine into the room with her. She re-filled Maureen’s glass as the two women sat in silence for a moment.

Maureen finally spoke. She looked at Tammy, her tone somewhat accusatory. “You knew a lot more than you led me to believe back in L.A., didn’t you?”

Tammy sighed and leaned back hard against the couch. “I’m really sorry, Maureen. I couldn’t tell you everything I knew then.”

I still can’t,
she thought dismally before continuing. “I didn’t want to scare you off. You would have never made this trip and we couldn’t take that chance.”

“We? You mean you and Sinclair? Are you a member of his Blue Apples society?”

“It’s not that simple. Look, Sinclair will do everything he can to protect you.”

“Because he thinks I’m his golden girl?”

“Yes, but also because he truly cares about you. I can see that in him. But Berry also feels the responsibility. He led you to the slaughter, like your proverbial paschal lamb namesake, when he announced you in that damn dress. In his excitement, he didn’t think it through.”

Maureen took another sip of the rich red wine. “So what do you suggest I do? This is foreign territory to me, Tammy. Do I leave? Just forget any of this ever happened and go back to my life?” She gave an ironic little laugh. “Sure, no problem.”

Tammy looked sympathetic. “Maybe you should, just for the sake of your physical safety. Berry can sneak you and Peter out of here tomorrow. It will kill him, but he’ll do it if you ask.”

“And then what? I go back to L.A. where I’m haunted for the rest of my life by nightmares and visions? Where my work suffers because I will never be able to look at history again in the same way, yet don’t dare risk further investigation because of some shadowy henchmen who would harm me? And who are these dangerous people? Why do they want to stop the prophecy so much that they would kill for it?”

Tammy stood up and began to pace. “There are a number of factions who have a vested interest in keeping Mary Magdalene’s views a secret. There’s the traditional Church, of course. But they’re not the dangerous ones.”

“Then who is? Damn it, Tammy, I’m tired of riddles and I’m sick of games. Somebody owes me a complete explanation, and I want one fast.”

Tammy nodded somberly. “And you will have one in the morning. But it’s not my place to give it to you.”

“Then where is Sinclair? I want to speak to him. Now.”

Tammy shrugged helplessly. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. He left shortly after your departure from his study. I’m not sure where he went, but he said he wouldn’t be back until very, very late. He’ll tell you everything in the morning, I promise you.”

But by the time Bérenger Sinclair returned to Château des Pommes Bleues, the world had changed.

…Easa’s arrival was certainly noted by all of the authorities in Jerusalem, from the priests in the Temple to Pilate’s guard. The Romans were concerned about Passover. They feared uprising or rioting could be incited by any surge of Jewish sentiment or nationalism. And because there were Zealots with us, Pilate had no choice but to take note.

There were those among our own who had brothers in the priestly caste. They informed us that the high priest Caiaphas, the son-in-law of Jonathan Annas, who so despised us, held a council on “this idea of the Nazarene turned messiah.”

I have said my piece about this man Annas in the past, and here I will tell more of his deeds. But I do so with one warning:
do not condemn many for the actions of one man.
For the priestly caste is the same as all others — some are just and good in their hearts, some are not. There are those who followed the orders of Jonathan Annas in the dark days — priests and men. Some did so because they were obedient to the Temple, because they were good and righteous men, just as my own brother had been when he made that terrible choice.

Our people were misled by corrupt leaders, blinded to the truth by those who had a duty to give them something more. Some opposed us because they feared more Jewish bloodshed and wanted only to find peace for the people during Passover. I cannot fault anyone for that choice.

Should we condemn those who did not see the light? No. Easa taught us we must not shun them; we must forgive them.

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

M
aureen returned to her room feeling heavy with dread and anxiety. She was in over her head and had no idea what to do about it. She dressed for bed slowly, trying to think with a brain muddled by overload and a little too much red wine.
This is an exercise in futility,
she thought to herself.
I’ll never sleep tonight.

But as she surrendered to the sumptuous comfort of the massive bed, sleep claimed her in a matter of minutes. And so did the dream.

The petite woman in the red veil followed quietly in the darkness. Her heart beat in rapid rhythm as she tried to keep up with the two men and their long strides. This was all or nothing — a terrible risk for each of them, but the most important task of her life.

They ran quickly down the exterior stairs; this was the greatest risk of their journey. They would be exposed to the Jerusalem night and could only pray that the guards had been drawn away, as promised.

They looked at each other with relief as they approached the subterranean entrance. No guards. One man stayed on the outside to keep watch. The other man, who knew the way through the corridors of the prison, continued to lead the woman. He stopped before a heavy door, removing a key that had been concealed beneath the folds of his tunic.

He looked at the woman and said something to her emphatically. They all knew there was very little time before they risked discovery, she most of all.

The man turned the key in the lock and opened the door to admit her, closing it quickly behind her to provide privacy to the woman and the prisoner.

She did not know what she had expected, but it wasn’t this. Her beautiful man had been treated cruelly, of that there was no doubt. His clothes were torn, and he had suffered bruises on his face. Yet for all of his injury, he had a smile of warmth and love for the woman as she threw herself into his arms.

He held her for only the briefest moment, as time was against them. Next he took her by the shoulders and began to issue instructions — emphatic, urgent directives. She nodded over and over again, assuring him she understood and that all of his wishes would be carried out. Finally, he placed his hand lightly on the swell of her belly and gave her one final instruction. When he was finished, she fell into his arms for a final time, trying valiantly to stifle the sound of the sobs that wracked her body.

The same sobs shook Maureen. She cried uncontrollably, burying her face in the pillow so the others in the château would not hear her. Peter’s room was closest, and she certainly didn’t want to attract his attention.

This dream was the worst of all. It was too real, too vivid. She felt every second of strain and grief, felt the urgency of the directives that were being given. And she knew why. These were the final instructions given to Mary Magdalene by Jesus Christ on the eve of Good Friday.

And there was another urgent directive in the dream, this one given to Maureen. She had heard the man’s voice in her ear — was it her ear? Or was it Mary’s ear? She watched Mary from the outside, and yet she felt everything Mary experienced on the inside. And she heard the final instructions.

“Because it is time. Go, and be sure that our message lives on.”

Maureen sat up in bed and tried to think. She was operating on instinct now and on something else — something indefinable and without logic or reason. It was something she had to trust with her heart and not overanalyze with her brain.

It was full night in the Languedoc, black and silky, and the beams of a bright moon shone into Maureen’s room. Moonlight struck the lovely face of
Mary Magdalene in the Desert
as Ribera’s framed madonna looked heavenward for divine direction. Maureen decided to follow Mary’s direction. For the first time since she was eight years old, she began to pray for guidance.

Later, Maureen couldn’t remember how long it had been before she heard the voice. Seconds? Minutes? It didn’t matter. When she heard it, she knew. It was just like in the Louvre, the same insistent female whisper calling to her, leading her forward. This time it called her name.

“Maureen. Maureen…,” it whispered with growing urgency.

She threw on clothing and shoes, afraid to stall too long and lose contact with the ethereal guide who was directing her. She opened the door of her room carefully, praying that it wouldn’t squeak and awaken anyone. As for Mary Magdalene in the dream, stealth was of the utmost importance here. She couldn’t be seen, not yet. This was something she had to do on her own.

Maureen’s heart thumped in her ears as she tiptoed quietly through the château. Sinclair was gone and everyone else was asleep. As she made her way to the front door, she froze as the thought struck her. The alarm. The front door was secured with a coded alarm. She had watched Roland release it one morning after breakfast, but didn’t see the number. He had punched the keyboard in three rapid strokes — tap, tap, tap. Three numbers. The alarm code was three digits.

Standing before the panel, she tried to think like Sinclair. What code would he use? Then she hit on it. July 22 was the feast day of Mary Magdalene. She pressed the code into the panel just as she had seen Roland do it. 7–2–2. Nothing. A red light flashed and there was a loud beep that caused Maureen to jump half out of her skin.
Damn! Please, please, don’t let that have been loud enough to wake anyone.

Maureen gathered herself and thought about it again. She knew she didn’t have too much room for error. The alarm was certain to trigger if she stood here pressing incorrect codes. She lifted her head and looked upward, whispering, “Please, help me.” She didn’t know what she expected — would the voice answer? Would it give her the number? Would the door magically open and let her out? She waited for a moment, but none of these things occurred.

Don’t be an idiot. Come on, Maureen, think.
And then she heard it. Not the ephemeral woman’s voice, but one in her own head, from memory. It was Sinclair’s, from their first night in the château.

“My dear, you are the paschal lamb.”

Maureen turned to the panel and hit the numbers. 3–2–2. 322. Her birthday, the day of the resurrection.

Two short blips sounded as a green light flashed and a mechanical voice said something in French. Maureen didn’t wait to see if this woke anyone. She opened the heavy door and dashed out to where the moonlight illuminated the cobbled drive outside the château.

Maureen knew exactly where she was going. She didn’t know why and she didn’t know how; she just knew what her destination had to be. The voice was no longer audible, but she didn’t need it. Something else had taken over, some knowing inside her that she followed without question.

She walked quickly around the side of the house, the same route that Sinclair had taken when they toured the grounds. There was a path here, overgrown and difficult, that would have been impossible to follow during a dark moon. But the full lunar light illuminated her way. She followed it at a half run until she saw her goal in the distance. Sinclair’s Folly. The tower Alistair Sinclair had build in the middle of his property for no apparent reason.

Only there
was
a reason and she knew it now. It was a watchtower, just as Bérenger Saunière’s Tour Magdala in Rennes-le-Château was a watchtower. Both men were keeping a close eye on the region for the day when their Mary decided to reveal her secrets. Both towers overlooked the area that had been defined as the location of the treasure trove. Maureen headed toward the tower in anticipation, but her heart sank as she drew closer. She remembered that Sinclair kept it locked. He had used a key to open it when they were here.

But wait, what about when they left? Maureen combed her memory as she came closer to the tower. They had been deep in conversation, and she didn’t remember Sinclair locking it behind them. Could it be that he was so caught up in the discussion that he forgot? Would he have come back later to repair his negligence? Or did it lock automatically?

She didn’t have long to wait. As she rounded the tower to the entrance, she saw the door — hanging open on its hinges.

She exhaled, a breath of relief and gratitude. “Thank you,” she said skyward. She didn’t know if it was Sinclair’s doing or divine intervention, but whatever it was, it was very welcome.

Maureen climbed the stairs cautiously. It was pitch-black inside the strange stone building, and she could see nothing. She swallowed her tendency toward claustrophobia and pushed through the fear. Tammy’s voice in her head reminded her that both Sinclair and Saunière built their towers according to spiritual numerology. Counting carefully, she knew to reach out for the door ahead of her at the twenty-second step. The door opened, and moonlight flooded the turret stairs as Maureen walked out to the roof deck.

She stood there for a minute, taking in the eerie beauty of the warm night. Not knowing what she was looking for, Maureen merely waited. She had come this far; she had to keep faith that her journey wouldn’t stop here. The moonlight flashed on something she had not noticed when she was here with Sinclair. Carved into the stone wall behind the door was a sundial similar to the one they had seen in Rennes-le-Château. Maureen ran her hand along the carving, but wasn’t familiar enough with the symbols to be certain if it was identical or merely comparable to the other. She considered this as she returned to the more central lookout post — she thought she had seen something on the horizon for a moment. She waited, watching in the Languedoc night.

Then she saw it, first as a flash in her peripheral vision. She did a double take, as she had done the first time she stood here with Sinclair. Something intangible, a bit of light or movement drew her eye to a place on the horizon. She turned toward it and watched as the moonlight seemed to swell, focusing an intense beam on a region straight ahead of her in the distance. The light struck something — a stone? A building?