The Templar Legacy (13 page)

His enemy turned and paraded from the chapel. The seneschal waited until the doors had closed, then laid a trembling hand on the coffin. A network of hate, treachery, and fanaticism was closing around him. He heard again his words to the master from yesterday.

I respect the power of our adversaries.

He’d just sparred with his adversary and lost.

Which did not bode well for the hours ahead.

RENNES-LE-CHÂTEAU, FRANCE 11:30 AM

MALONE TURNED THE RENTAL CAR EAST OFF THE MAIN HIGHWAY, just outside Couiza, and started up a twisting incline. The rising road offered stunning vistas of nearby tawny hillsides thick with summer rock roses, lavender, and thyme. The lofty ruins of a fortress, its charred walls standing like gaunt fingers, rose in the distance. The land, as far as the eye could see, oozed the romance of history when marauding knights swooped like eagles from the fortified heights to prey on their foe.

He and Stephanie had left Copenhagen around fourAM and flown to Paris, where they caught the first Air France shuttle of the day south for Toulouse. An hour later they were on the ground and motoring southwest into the region known as the Languedoc.

On the way Stephanie told him about the village that stood fifteen hundred feet atop the bleak mound they were now climbing. Gauls were the first to inhabit the hilltop, drawn by the prospect of being able to see for miles across the expansive Aude River valley. But it was the Visigoths in the fifth century who built a citadel and adopted the ancient Celtic name for the location—Rhedae, which meant “chariot”—eventually developing the place into a trading center. Two hundred years later, when the Visigoths were driven south into Spain, the Franks converted Rhedae into a royal city. By the thirteenth century, though, the town’s status had declined, and toward the end of the Albigensian Crusade it was razed. Ownership passed through several wealthy houses of both France and Spain, eventually resting with one of Simon de Montfort’s lieutenants, who founded a barony. The family built themselves a château, around which a tiny hamlet sprouted, and the name eventually changed from Rhedae to Rennes-le-Château. Their issue ruled the land and the town until 1781, when the last heir, Marie d’Hautpoul de Blanchefort, died.

“Before her death, it was said that she passed on a great secret,” Stephanie had said, “one that her family kept for centuries. She was childless and her husband died before her, so with no one left, she told the secret to her confessor, the abbé Antoine Bigou, who was the parish priest for Rennes.”

Now, as Malone stared ahead at the last bend in the narrow road, he imagined what it must have been like to live then in such a remote place. The isolated valleys formed a perfect repository for both fleeing fugitives and restless pilgrims. Easy to see why the region had become a theme park for the imagination, a mecca for mystery buffs and new agers, a place where writers with a unique vision could forge a reputation.

Like Lars Nelle.

The town came into view. He slowed the car and eased through a gate framed by limestone pillars. A sign warnedFOUILLES INTERDITES . Excavating prohibited.

“They had to post a notice about digging?” he asked.

Stephanie nodded. “Years ago, people were shoveling dirt in every corner looking for treasure. Even dynamiting. It had to be regulated.”

Daylight dimmed beyond the town gate. The limestone buildings were packed tight, like books on a shelf, many with pitched roofs, thick doors, and rusted iron verandas. A narrow and flinty grand rue wound up a short incline. People with backpacks and Michelin Green Guides hugged the walls on either side, parading single-file back and forth. Malone saw a couple of stores, a bookshop, and a restaurant. Alleys led off the main rue to nests of buildings, but not many. The entire town was less than five hundred yards across.

“Only about a hundred people live here full time,” Stephanie said. “Though fifty thousand visit each year.”

“Lars had quite an effect.”

“More than I ever realized.”

She pointed ahead and directed him to turn left. They eased past kiosks peddling rosaries, medals, pictures, and souvenirs to more camera-toting visitors.

“They come by the busload,” she said. “Wanting to believe in the impossible.”

Up another incline and he parked the Peugeot in a sandy lot. Two buses were already there, their drivers milling about smoking. A water tower rose to one side, its tattered stone adorned with a zodiac sign.

“The crowds come early,” Stephanie said as they climbed out. “Here to see the domaine d’Abbé Saunière. The priest’s domain—what he built with all that mysterious treasure he supposedly found.”

Malone stepped close to a waist-high rock wall. The panorama below, a patchwork of field, forest, valley, and rock, stretched for miles. The silver-green hills were dotted with chestnut and oak. He checked his bearings. The great bulk of the snowcapped Pyrénées blocked the southern horizon. A stiff wind howled from the west, thankfully warmed by the summer sun.

He glanced to the right. A hundred feet away the neo-Gothic tower, with its crenellated roof and single round turret, had graced the cover of many a book and tourist brochure. It stood on the edge of a cliff, grim and defiant, seemingly clinging to rock. A long belvedere stretched from its far side and rounded back toward an iron glasshouse, then to another cluster of olden stone buildings, each topped with orange-tiled roofs. People milled back and forth on the ramparts, cameras in hand, admiring the valleys below.

“The tower is the Tour Magdala. Quite a sight, isn’t it?” Stephanie asked.

“Seems out of place.”

“That’s what I always thought, too.”

To the right of the Magdala rose an ornamental garden that led to a compact Renaissance-style building that also seemed from another locale.

“The Villa Béthanie,” she said. “Saunière built it, too.”

He noted the name. Bethany. “That’s biblical. In the Holy Land. It meant ‘house with an answer.’ ”

She nodded. “Saunière was clever with names.” She pointed to more buildings behind them. “Lars’s house is down that alley. Before we head there, I have to do something. As we walk, let me tell you about what happened here in 1891. What I read about last week. What brought this place back from obscurity.”

The abbé Bérenger Saunière pondered the daunting task before him. The Church of Mary Magdalene had been built upon Visigoth ruins and consecrated in 1059. Now, eight centuries later, the inside was in ruin, thanks to a roof that leaked as if it weren’t there. The walls themselves were crumbling, the foundations slipping away. It would take both patience and stamina to repair the damage, but he thought himself up to the task.

He was a husky man, muscular, broad-shouldered, with a head of close-cropped black hair. His one endearing feature, which he used to his advantage, was the cleft in his chin. It added a whimsical air to the stiff countenance of his black eyes and thick eyebrows. Born and raised a few miles away, in the village of Montazels, he knew the geography of the Corbières well. From childhood he’d been familiar with Rennes-le-Château. Its church, dedicated to St. Mary Magdalene, had been in limited use for decades, and he’d never imagined that one day its many problems would be his.

“A mess,” the man known as Rousset said to him.

He glanced at the mason. “I agree.”

Another mason, Babou, was busy shoring up one of the walls. The region’s state architect had recently recommended that the building be razed, but Saunière would never allow that to happen. Something about the old church demanded that it be saved.

“It will take much money to complete the repairs,” Rousset said.

“Enormous amounts of money.” He added a smile to let the older man know that he understood the challenge. “But we shall make this house worthy of the Lord.”

What he did not say was that he’d already secured a fair amount of funds. A bequest from one of his predecessors had left six hundred francs especially for repairs. He’d also managed to convince the town council to loan him another fourteen hundred francs. But the bulk of his money had come in secret five years ago. Three thousand francs had been donated by the countess of Chambord, the widow of Henri, the last Bourbon claimant to the defunct French throne. At the time Saunière had managed to bring a great deal of attention to himself with anti-republican sermons, ones that stirred monarchist feelings in his parishioners. The government reeled from the comments, withdrawing his yearly stipend and demanding that he be fired. Instead the bishop suspended him for nine months, but his actions caught the attention of the countess, who’d made contact through an intermediary.

“Where do we start?” Rousset asked.

He’d given that matter a great deal of thought. The stained-glass windows had already been replaced and a new porch, outside the main entrance, would be completed shortly. Certainly the north wall, where Babou was working, must be mended, a new pulpit installed, and the roof replaced. But he knew where they must start.

“We will begin with the altar.”

A curious look came to Rousset’s face.

“The people’s focus is there,” Saunière said.

“As you say, Abbé.”

He liked the respect his older parishioners showed him, though he was only thirty-eight. Over the past five years he’d come to like Rennes. He was near home, with plenty of opportunities to study Scriptures and perfect his Latin, Greek, and Hebrew. He also enjoyed trekking in the mountains, fishing, and hunting. But the time had come to do something constructive.

He approached the altar.

The top was white marble pitted by water that had rained down for centuries from the porous ceiling. The slab was supported by two ornate columns, their exteriors adorned with Visigoth crosses and Greek letters.

“We shall replace the top and the pillars,” he declared.

“How, Abbé?” Rousset asked. “There is no way we can lift that.”

He pointed to where Babou stood. “Use the sledgehammer. There is no need for delicacy.”

Babou brought the heavy tool over and surveyed his task. Then, with a great heave, Babou hoisted the hammer and crashed it down onto the center of the altar. The thick top cracked, but the stone did not give way.

“It’s solid,” Babou said.

“Again,” Saunière said with a flourish.

Another blow and the limestone shattered, the two halves collapsing into each other between the still standing pillars.

“Finish,” he said.

The two pieces were quickly busted into many.

He bent down. “Let’s haul all this away.”

“We’ll get it, Abbé,” Babou said, setting the sledgehammer aside. “You pile it for us.”

The two men lifted large chunks and headed for the door.

“Take it around to the cemetery and stack it. We should have use for it there,” he called out to them.

As they left, he noticed that both pillars had survived the demolition. With a swipe he cleared dust and debris away from the crown of one. On the other a piece of limestone still lay, and, when he tossed the chunk into the pile, he noticed beneath, in the crown of the pillar, a shallow mortise hole. The space was no bigger than the palm of his hand, surely designed to hold the top’s locking pin, but inside the cavity he caught sight of a glimmer.

He bent close and carefully blew away the dust.

Yes, something was there.

A glass vial.

Not much longer than his index finger and only slightly wider, the top sealed with crimson wax. He looked close and saw that the vessel contained a rolled piece of paper. He wondered how long it had been there. He was not aware of any recent work done to the altar, so it must have been secreted there a long time ago.

He freed the object from its hiding place.

“That vial started everything,” Stephanie said.

Malone nodded. “I read Lars’s books, too. But I thought Saunière was supposed to have found three parchments in that pillar with some sort of coded messages.”

She shook her head. “That’s all part of the myth others added to the story. This, Lars and I did talk about. Most of the fallacies were started in the fifties by a Rennes innkeeper who wanted to generate business. One lie built on another. Lars never accepted that those parchments were real. Their supposed text was printed in countless books, but no one has ever seen them.”

“Then why did he write about them?”

“To sell books. I know it bothered him, but he did it anyway. He always said that whatever wealth Saunière found could be traced to 1891 and whatever was inside that glass vial. But he was the only one who believed that.” She pointed off to another of the stone buildings. “That’s the presbytery where Saunière lived. It’s a museum about him now. The pillar with the small niche is in there for all to see.”

They passed the crowded kiosks and kept to the rough-paved street.

“The Church of Mary Magdalene,” she said, pointing at a Romanesque building. “Once the chapel for the local counts. Now, for a few euros, you can see the great creation of Abbé Saunière.”

“You don’t approve?”

She shrugged. “I never did. That was the problem.”

Off to their right he saw a tumbled-down château, its mud-colored outer walls baked by the sun. “That’s the Hautpouls estate,” she said. “It was lost during the Revolution to the government and has been a mess ever since.”

They rounded the far end of the church and passed beneath a stone gateway that bore what looked like a skull and crossbones. He recalled from the book he’d read last night that the symbol appeared on many Templar gravestones.

The earth beyond the entrance was littered with pebbles. He knew what the French called the space. Enclos paroissiaux. Parish close. And the enclosure seemed typical—one side bounded by a low wall, the other nestled close to a church, its entrance a triumphal arch. The cemetery hosted a profusion of table tombs, headstones, and memorials. Floral tributes topped some of the graves, and many were adorned, in the French tradition, with photographs of the deceased.

Stephanie walked to one of the monuments that displayed neither flowers nor images, and Malone let her go alone. He knew that Lars Nelle had been so liked by the locals that they’d granted him the privilege of being buried in their cherished churchyard.