Destiny (25 page)

All of them were crafted of flat stones mortared together in rectangular shapes left hollow for the bodies. Once the dead were interred, the lids were mortared on, as well.

Annja brushed at the thick dust that covered them, searching for identification marks. Near one end of the coffin she was examining, she found a name carved into one of the rocks:

 

Brother Gustave

1843-1912

 

“What are you looking for?” Roux joined her in the search, working on the other side.

“Father Roger.” Annja moved on to the coffin above the first one she'd inspected.

Rats, no doubt drawn into the caves by the ready supply of food kept on hand by the monks, scattered across the top of the coffin. She didn't want to think about what the rodents would have done to the bodies if they'd gotten inside.

“Who was he?” Roux asked.

“He was head of the monastery in 1767 when it was destroyed.” Annja read the next inscription, but it wasn't the one she was looking for, either.

Reluctantly, Avery joined in the search. He approached another wall of coffins tentatively.

“‘Roger' isn't exactly a French name,” Roux said.

“It's English.” Annja went to the next stack and swept dust from it, as well. “He was once Roger of Falhout.”

Roux looked at her then. “Wasn't he the man whose heraldry is represented on the lozenge?”

“No. That heraldry belonged to his brother, Sir Henry. And to Sir Henry's father before him. Roger was Sir Henry's younger brother. One of them, anyway.”

“But he wasn't entitled to the heraldry because of the law of primogeniture,” Roux said, understanding.

Avery turned to them. “I don't know what that law is.”

“Basically,” Annja said, moving to the next coffin, “it's a law that keeps the family farm from being split up. Say a man has three sons. Like Sir Henry's father. The eldest son, Sir Henry, inherits all the family lands and titles. At the time, it took a lot of land to field a knight, and knights were the lifeblood of a king's army.”

“That's not true anymore,” Avery said.

“No, but it was when Father Roger was around.” Annja frightened away another rat and read the next inscription. “Fathers had to have a system to keep brothers from fighting over the lands. So a simple method was devised. The first son inherited the land. The second son was given to the military. The third son was given to the church.”

“And if there were more?”

“They were apprenticed to master craftsmen as best as could be done,” Annja said.

“Roger was a third-born son,” Roux said.

“Right,” Annja agreed. “He was given to the church.”

“Which wasn't without its own problems,” Roux said. “England had fought the Roman influence for six hundred years before the Anglican Church was declared.”

“Henry VIII closed the Roman Catholic abbeys and monasteries during his reign,” Annja added, “and supported the Anglican Church. Father Roger, as evidenced by his presence here, was Roman Catholic.”

“Why did they send him here?” Roux asked.

“As punishment.”

“For what?”

“I think he fathered Carolyn. The girl who was born while Sir Richard of Kirkland was over in the New World fighting the French and the Indians.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Why else would the Falhout family heraldry be on the lozenge?”

Roux had no answer.

“I think the Roman Catholic Church found out about Father Roger's indiscretion with Sir Richard of Kirkland's wife,” Annja went on. “And once they did, I think the Vatican shipped Father Roger here before the affair caused any further problems in London.”

“Such as Sir Richard coming home and killing him?” Roux suggested.

“Yes. King George III would have backed one of his knights in such a matter, and the Roman Catholic Church could have lost even more ground in England. They'd already lost a lot by that time.”

“So it was better to hide the problem than to deal with it,” Roux said.

“Hiding the problem
was
dealing with it. But I think they had more to hide than they'd originally believed.” Annja moved to the next stone coffin. “They also had Carolyn to hide.”

“The child?”

Annja nodded. “The daughter of Father Roger and Sir Richard's wife. Some of the reports I read suggest that she showed signs of inbreeding, but I believe that was a cover-up, an attempt to point the blame elsewhere. I think Carolyn's condition was caused by something worse than inbreeding.”

“What?” Roux dusted off another coffin.

“Have you heard of Proteus Syndrome?”

“The disfigurement that created the Elephant Man?”

“Yes. Joseph Merrick's X-rays and CT scans were examined by a radiologist who determined that the disease was Proteus Syndrome.”

Roux turned and faced her. “You think Carolyn had Proteus Syndrome?”

“Yes. More than that, I think she was La Bête.” All the pieces came together in Annja's mind. She was certain she had most of it now. “I saw that creature in the cave where I found the charm. It looked almost human. At least, aspects of it did.”

“But Proteus Syndrome is debilitating and life-threatening,” Roux argued. “It creates massive tissue growth. Merrick's head was too misshapen and too heavy for his body. He died at twenty-seven, strangled by the weight of his own head.”

“Does Proteus Syndrome always have to present negatively?” Annja asked. “Couldn't it sometimes be an unexpected change and growth that makes a person stronger?” She looked at Roux. “I saw all those pieces of this sword become one again. I think that's harder to believe than my suggestion about Proteus Syndrome.”

“You believe the disease turned her into an animal?”

Annja took a deep breath. “We'll never know if it was her condition or the treatment she received as a result of it. That's an argument for the nature-versus-nurture people. Sir Richard disowned Carolyn and cast her from his house. Her mother never visited her in the abbey. And the nuns—” She shook her head, thinking about the afflicted child. Sometimes things hadn't been easy in the orphanage where she'd grown up, but the conditions had to have been a lot better than in the eighteenth century. “The nuns couldn't have known how to treat her or what to do.”

“They would have believed she was demon spawn,” Roux said quietly. He shrugged. “In those days, the church believed everything, and everyone, who was different was demon spawn.”

Annja silently agreed.

“Carolyn killed the sisters in the abbey where she was first kept,” Roux said. “You have to wonder what triggered that, but I'm afraid I could hazard a guess. The human mind has its breaking points.”

Annja was surprised. She hadn't known the old man had been truly listening to her while she'd pursued the truth. “Yes. Then they faked her death and shipped her here.”

“To be with her father.”

“Yes.”

“As further punishment?”

Shaking her head, Annja said, “I think Father Roger wouldn't allow any harm to come to his daughter. He forced the church to send her here.”

“How did he do that?”

“I don't know. I only know that he must have. Otherwise she wouldn't have been here.” Annja moved on to the next coffin. “Once here, Carolyn must have grown bigger, stronger
and
more intelligent. Or possibly she was always intelligent. Either way, she learned to escape from the monastery.”

“She was La Bête,” Roux said, understanding.

“I believe so. If you look at those pictures I took of the corpse in the cave where I found the charm, you can see the misshapen limbs and body. Proteus Syndrome didn't occur to me then, but it did later.”

They kept searching.

“Here it is, then.” Avery brushed layers of dust from a stone coffin.

Joining him, Annja held her candle lantern closer to the inscription.

 

Father Roger

1713-1767

Cursed by God

Condemned by Believers

 

Below the inscription was a carving of the standing stag that matched the one on the charm. Annja placed the candle lantern on the coffin and brushed at the dust, exposing the top to see if there were any more inscriptions.

Emotions swirled within her. There was excitement, of course. There always was when she made a discovery. But it was bittersweet this time. She couldn't help thinking about the innocent child afflicted with a disease no one had understood or even known existed at the time.

“The grave diggers always get the last word,” Roux said. “Not very generous, were they?”

“Or very forgiving,” Annja agreed quietly.

“He was a sinner,” a strong voice filled with accusation announced.

Annja spun, summoning the sword as she turned. Light splintered along the sharp blade.

A man in his sixties stood in the doorway. He was wearing monk's robes. A dozen more flanked him.

“I suppose,” Roux whispered, “in retrospect we truly should have posted a lookout to keep watch.”

“Next time,” Annja promised.

“More than merely being a sinner, though,” the old monk said, “Father Roger was an embarrassment to the Vatican. They had empowered him to act on their behalf in London. England had already stepped away from much of the Roman Catholic Church's auspices. News of Father Roger's perfidies would have made things even worse. You were wondering how he got his bestial child transferred here when by all rights she should have been taken out and euthanized.”

“I was,” Annja admitted.

The monk stepped into the mausoleum. The other monks followed. Light from their lanterns and flashlights filled the arched cavern.

“Father Roger wrote out a document detailing his transgressions,” the monk stated. “He admitted to carrying on with a married woman and fathering a child by her.” He shook his head. “It was more than the Vatican wished to deal with. Sir Richard of Kirkland, the cuckolded husband, and Sir Henry, Father Roger's brother, were landed gentry. Men who were important to the king.”

“The Vatican didn't want to run the risk of the king's wrath,” Annja said.

“That's correct. Neither of the knights knew the truth of the child's heritage. Sir Henry would not have accepted his brother's expulsion from the church. So the decision was made to bring Father Roger to the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain. He could have lived out the rest of his days making books. Instead, he saw to sowing the seeds of his own doom by blackmailing the church into bringing that dreadful creature here.”

“Who are you?” Annja asked.

“I am Brother Gaspar,” the old monk said. “One of the last of those who safeguard the secrets that nearly escaped our monastery all those years ago.”

“Looking back on things,” Annja said, “with over a hundred people dead, I'd say your ‘secret' got out on a regular basis.”

“Regrettable, but true,” Brother Gaspar said. “If I had been leader of the order at that time, Father Roger's child would not have escaped.”

“Would you have killed Carolyn?” Annja demanded.

The old monk's answer came without hesitation. “Yes.”

“She was a child,” Annja protested. “Children aren't born evil.”

“By all accounts, she was a child of the devil allowed entrance into this world by the sin committed by her mother and father. She was a murderess and a monster.” Fire glinted in the old monk's eyes. “Don't you dare try to tell me what she was. All of my order since that time have lived our lives in darkness here within this mountain because of her and her blasphemous father.”

“Why did you stay here after the monastery was torn down?” That was the only part Annja hadn't been able to resolve.

“That's none of your business,” Brother Gaspar snapped.

“Father Roger left his record,” Roux announced. He looked at Annja. “That has to be the answer, of course. No one at the monastery would hear his confession. Or if they would, perhaps he thought it wouldn't matter. No one here worried about Father Roger's eternal soul. In their eyes he was already damned to hell.”

“Is that it?” Annja asked. “Is that why you people have been stuck here?”

For a moment, she didn't think Brother Gaspar was going to answer.

“Unfortunately, that's true. One of the documents, his confession, was found at the time of his death. He died during the destruction of the monastery. It wasn't until later that the document was found among his papers.”

“I don't see the problem,” Annja said.

Brother Gaspar shook his head. “It was clearly marked as the second copy.” He shrugged. “I think it was habit for Father Roger to number his copies. The monastery worked on books here. Handwritten and illuminated. We still do. It's a habit to number all versions.”

“For all these years that the monastery has gone underground, you've been searching for the original copy?” Annja asked.

“Yes. We won't be permitted to leave this place until we have secured that copy. Or confirmed its destruction.” Looking at her, Brother Gaspar lifted an eyebrow. “You have been so clever so far, Miss Creed. Finding the lost treasure. Finding this place when it has been secret for all these years. Figuring out the truth of La Bête. Locating the charm that Father Roger wore. I would have hoped you could divine where Father Roger's missing documents were.”

“Father Roger wore the charm?”

“Before Benoit took it, yes.” Brother Gaspar paused. “I'd heard Benoit took Father Roger's charm and fashioned it into a map of sorts.”

“He did.”

“No one at the monastery ever saw it. We thought it lost forever.”

“It was around the neck of the man who killed La Bête. Carolyn.”

“Was it?” That appeared to surprise the old monk. “You have been quite resourceful.”

“I'm good at what I do,” Annja said.

“On any other subject,” Brother Gaspar said, “I would probably offer you accolades on your diligence and devotion to your craft. I would warn you about putting other pursuits ahead of God, but I would congratulate you.” He paused. “Unfortunately, all I can show you for your endeavor is imprisonment.”

“What?” Avery exploded. “We've done nothing wrong! The treasure is still where we found it! We only came here because we were trying to escape Lesauvage!”

“But you know too much,” Brother Gaspar explained patiently. “I can't afford to let you leave.”

At his signal, the monks lifted their weapons and took deliberate aim.

Annja looked over her shoulder at the other door. Three monks stood there with pistols and swords. Cowls shadowed their faces.

“Now,” Brother Gaspar said, “your choice is to come willingly…or be shot and interred in this mausoleum. Which will it be?”

Avery looked at Annja. Fear widened his eyes.

“Easy,” she said. “Roux?”

“I have him,” Roux stated quietly.

“The sword, Miss Creed,” Brother Gaspar commanded. “Throw it down, and any other weapons you might have, or we'll take them from your lifeless bodies.”

After a momentary hesitation, Annja lowered the sword to the mausoleum floor and slid it across. The weapon stopped in the center of the room.

“Very good,” Brother Gaspar said. “Now—”

Hoarse shouts cut off the old monk. Sharp bursts of gunfire followed. One of the monks standing out in the hallway twisted and went down, his face ripped to bloody shreds.

“Kill them!” Corvin Lesauvage shouted out in the hallway. “Kill them all!”

“Roux!” Annja yelled as she turned toward the other door. She reached for the sword and suddenly the intervening twenty feet were no longer there; the sword was in her hand.

Launching herself forward, Annja slashed the sword across two of the assault rifles. The impacts knocked the weapons from the hands of the men.

The third man aimed his weapon and pulled the trigger.

Annja went low, just under the stream of bullets that hammered the stone floor and threw splinters and fragments in all directions. She swept the man's feet out from under him in a baseball slide that tangled them both up for a moment. Before the man could recover, Annja slammed the sword hilt into the side of his head. His eyes turned glassy and he sagged into unconsciousness.

Rolling to her feet, Annja avoided one man's outstretched arms, then popped up with a forearm that caught him under the jawline. He flew back against the stone wall and collapsed.

The third man drew a long knife and sprang at her. Annja fisted his robe and fell backward, planting a foot into his stomach and tossing him back into the center of the mausoleum.

Rolling to her feet again, Annja saw Roux shove Avery Moreau out into the hallway, then bend down to slide a pistol from one of the monk's robes. After he tossed the weapon to Annja, he took another pistol and an assault rifle for himself. He palmed as many magazines as he could find for the weapons and shoved them into his pockets.

Annja headed into the hallway as Brother Gaspar and the monks fled their positions and flooded toward them. Bullets slapped the cave walls and ricocheted overhead, filling the air like an angry swarm of bees.

Roux knelt like a seasoned infantryman and aimed his assault rifle low. He fired mercilessly. Bullets chopped into the wave of fleeing monks, turning the middle of the mausoleum into a deadly no-man's-land. As flashlights and lanterns hit the ground, the illumination was extinguished and the room turned dark.