The Da Vinci Code (45 page)

Sophie lay there on the floor, gazing up at the code. Her eyes felt sleepy. After a few minutes, the symbols got fuzzy. And then they disappeared.

When Sophie awoke, the floor felt cold.

“Grand-père?”

There was no answer. Standing up, she brushed herself off. The side door was still open. The evening was getting darker. She walked outside and could see her grandfather standing on the porch of a nearby stone house directly behind the church. Her grandfather was talking quietly to a person barely visible inside the screened door.

“Grand-père?”
she called.

Her grandfather turned and waved, motioning for her to wait just a moment. Then, slowly, he said some final words to the person inside and blew a kiss toward the screened door. He came to her with tearful eyes.

“Why are you crying,
Grand-père?
”

He picked her up and held her close. “Oh, Sophie, you and I have said good-bye to a lot of people this year. It's hard.”

Sophie thought of the accident, of saying good-bye to her mother and father, her grandmother and baby brother. “Were you saying good-bye to
another
person?”

“To a dear friend whom I love very much,” he replied, his voice heavy with emotion. “And I fear I will not see her again for a very long time.”

Standing with the docent, Langdon had been scanning the chapel walls and feeling a rising wariness that a dead end might be looming. Sophie had wandered off to look at the code and left Langdon holding the rosewood box, which contained a Grail map that now appeared to be no help at all. Although Saunière's poem clearly indicated Rosslyn, Langdon was not sure what to do now that they had arrived. The poem made reference to a “blade and chalice,” which Langdon saw nowhere.

The Holy Grail 'neath ancient Roslin waits.
The blade and chalice guarding o'er Her gates.

Again Langdon sensed there remained some facet of this mystery yet to reveal itself.

“I hate to pry,” the docent said, eyeing the rosewood box in Langdon's hands. “But this box . . . might I ask where you got it?”

Langdon gave a weary laugh. “That's an exceptionally long story.”

The young man hesitated, his eyes on the box again. “It's the strangest thing—my grandmother has a box
exactly
like that—a jewelry box. Identical polished rosewood, same inlaid rose, even the hinges look the same.”

Langdon knew the young man must be mistaken. If ever a box had been one of a kind, it was
this
one—the box custom-made for the Priory keystone. “The two boxes may be similar but—”

The side door closed loudly, drawing both of their gazes. Sophie had exited without a word and was now wandering down the bluff toward a fieldstone house nearby. Langdon stared after her.
Where is she going?
She had been acting strangely ever since they entered the building. He turned to the docent. “Do you know what that house is?”

He nodded, also looking puzzled that Sophie was going down there. “That's the chapel rectory. The chapel curator lives there. She also happens to be the head of the Rosslyn Trust.” He paused. “And my grandmother.”

“Your grandmother heads the Rosslyn Trust?”

The young man nodded. “I live with her in the rectory and help keep up the chapel and give tours.” He shrugged. “I've lived here my whole life. My grandmother raised me in that house.”

Concerned for Sophie, Langdon moved across the chapel toward the door to call out to her. He was only halfway there when he stopped short. Something the young man said just registered.

My grandmother raised me.

Langdon looked out at Sophie on the bluff, then down at the rosewood box in his hand.
Impossible
. Slowly, Langdon turned back to the young man. “You said your grandmother has a box like this one?”

“Almost identical.”

“Where did she get it?”

“My grandfather made it for her. He died when I was a baby, but my grandmother still talks about him. She says he was a genius with his hands. He made all kinds of things.”

Langdon glimpsed an unimaginable web of connections emerging. “You said your grandmother raised you. Do you mind my asking what happened to your parents?”

The young man looked surprised. “They died when I was young.” He paused. “The same day as my grandfather.”

Langdon's heart pounded. “In a car accident?”

The docent recoiled, a look of bewilderment in his olive-green eyes. “Yes. In a car accident. My entire family died that day. I lost my grandfather, my parents, and . . .” He hesitated, glancing down at the floor.

“And your sister,” Langdon said.

Out on the bluff, the fieldstone house was exactly as Sophie remembered it. Night was falling now, and the house exuded a warm and inviting aura. The smell of bread wafted through the opened screened door, and a golden light shone in the windows. As Sophie approached, she could hear the quiet sounds of sobbing from within.

Through the screened door, Sophie saw an elderly woman in the hallway. Her back was to the door, but Sophie could see she was crying. The woman had long, luxuriant, silver hair that conjured an unexpected wisp of memory. Feeling herself drawn closer, Sophie stepped onto the porch stairs. The woman was clutching a framed photograph of a man and touching her fingertips to his face with loving sadness.

It was a face Sophie knew well.

Grand-père
.

The woman had obviously heard the sad news of his death last night.

A board squeaked beneath Sophie's feet, and the woman turned slowly, her sad eyes finding Sophie's. Sophie wanted to run, but she stood transfixed. The woman's fervent gaze never wavered as she set down the photo and approached the screened door. An eternity seemed to pass as the two women stared at one another through the thin mesh. Then, like the slowly gathering swell of an ocean wave, the woman's visage transformed from one of uncertainty . . . to disbelief . . . to hope . . . and finally, to cresting joy.

Throwing open the door, she came out, reaching with soft hands, cradling Sophie's thunderstruck face. “Oh, dear child . . . look at you!”

Although Sophie did not recognize her, she knew who this woman was. She tried to speak but found she could not even breathe.

“Sophie,” the woman sobbed, kissing her forehead.

Sophie's words were a choked whisper. “But . . .
Grand-père
said you were . . .”

“I know.” The woman placed her tender hands on Sophie's shoulders and gazed at her with familiar eyes. “Your grandfather and I were forced to say so many things. We did what we thought was right. I'm so sorry. It was for your own safety, princess.”

Sophie heard her final word, and immediately thought of her grandfather, who had called her princess for so many years. The sound of his voice seemed to echo now in the ancient stones of Rosslyn, settling through the earth and reverberating in the unknown hollows below.

The woman threw her arms around Sophie, the tears flowing faster. “Your grandfather wanted so badly to tell you everything. But things were difficult between you two. He tried so hard. There's so much to explain. So very much to explain.” She kissed Sophie's forehead once again, then whispered in her ear. “No more secrets, princess. It's time you learn the truth about our family.”

Sophie and her grandmother were seated on the porch stairs in a tearful hug when the young docent dashed across the lawn, his eyes shining with hope and disbelief.

“Sophie?”

Through her tears, Sophie nodded, standing. She did not know the young man's face, but as they embraced, she could feel the power of the blood coursing through his veins . . . the blood she now understood they shared.

When Langdon walked across the lawn to join them, Sophie could not imagine that only yesterday she had felt so alone in the world. And now, somehow, in this foreign place, in the company of three people she barely knew, she felt at last that she was home.

CHAPTER
105

Night had
fallen over Rosslyn.

Robert Langdon stood alone on the porch of the fieldstone house enjoying the sounds of laughter and reunion drifting through the screened door behind him. The mug of potent Brazilian coffee in his hand had granted him a hazy reprieve from his mounting exhaustion, and yet he sensed the reprieve would be fleeting. The fatigue in his body went to the core.

“You slipped out quietly,” a voice behind him said.

He turned. Sophie's grandmother emerged, her silver hair shimmering in the night. Her name, for the last twenty-eight years at least, was Marie Chauvel.

Langdon gave a tired smile. “I thought I'd give your family some time together.” Through the window, he could see Sophie talking with her brother.

Marie came over and stood beside him. “Mr. Langdon, when I first heard of Jacques's murder, I was terrified for Sophie's safety. Seeing her standing in my doorway tonight was the greatest relief of my life. I cannot thank you enough.”

Langdon had no idea how to respond. Although he had offered to give Sophie and her grandmother time to talk in private, Marie had asked him to stay and listen.
My husband obviously trusted you, Mr. Langdon, so I do as well
.

And so Langdon had remained, standing beside Sophie and listening in mute astonishment while Marie told the story of Sophie's late parents. Incredibly, both had been from Merovingian families—direct descendants of Mary Magdalene and Jesus Christ. Sophie's parents and ancestors, for protection, had changed their family names of Plantard and Saint-Clair. Their children represented the most direct surviving royal bloodline and therefore were carefully guarded by the Priory. When Sophie's parents were killed in a car accident whose cause could not be determined, the Priory feared the identity of the royal line had been discovered.

“Your grandfather and I,” Marie had explained in a voice choked with pain, “had to make a grave decision the instant we received the phone call. Your parents' car had just been found in the river.” She dabbed at the tears in her eyes. “All six of us—including you two grandchildren—were supposed to be traveling together in that car that very night. Fortunately we changed our plans at the last moment, and your parents were alone. Hearing of the accident, Jacques and I had no way to know what had really happened . . . or if this was truly an
accident
.” Marie looked at Sophie. “We knew we had to protect our grandchildren, and we did what we thought was best. Jacques reported to the police that your brother and I had been in the car . . . our two bodies apparently washed off in the current. Then your brother and I went underground with the Priory. Jacques, being a man of prominence, did not have the luxury of disappearing. It only made sense that Sophie, being the eldest, would stay in Paris to be taught and raised by Jacques, close to the heart and protection of the Priory.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “Separating the family was the hardest thing we ever had to do. Jacques and I saw each other only very infrequently, and always in the most secret of settings . . . under the protection of the Priory. There are certain ceremonies to which the brotherhood always stays faithful.”

Langdon had sensed the story went far deeper, but he also sensed it was not for him to hear. So he had stepped outside. Now, gazing up at the spires of Rosslyn, Langdon could not escape the hollow gnaw of Rosslyn's unsolved mystery.
Is the Grail really here at Rosslyn? And if so, where are the blade and chalice that Saunière mentioned in his poem?

“I'll take that,” Marie said, motioning to Langdon's hand.

“Oh, thank you.” Langdon held out his empty coffee cup.

She stared at him. “I was referring to your
other
hand, Mr. Langdon.”

Langdon looked down and realized he was holding Saunière's papyrus. He had taken it from the cryptex once again in hopes of seeing something he had missed earlier. “Of course, I'm sorry.”

Marie looked amused as she took the paper. “I know of a man at a bank in Paris who is probably very eager to see the return of this rosewood box. André Vernet was a dear friend of Jacques, and Jacques trusted him explicitly. André would have done anything to honor Jacques's requests for the care of this box.”

Including shooting me,
Langdon recalled, deciding not to mention that he had probably broken the poor man's nose. Thinking of Paris, Langdon flashed on the three
sénéchaux
who had been killed the night before. “And the Priory? What happens now?”

“The wheels are already in motion, Mr. Langdon. The brotherhood has endured for centuries, and it will endure this. There are always those waiting to move up and rebuild.”

All evening Langdon had suspected that Sophie's grandmother was closely tied to the operations of the Priory. After all, the Priory had always had women members. Four Grand Masters had been women. The
sénéchaux
were traditionally men—the guardians—and yet women held far more honored status within the Priory and could ascend to the highest post from virtually any rank.

Langdon thought of Leigh Teabing and Westminster Abbey. It seemed a lifetime ago. “Was the Church pressuring your husband not to release the Sangreal documents at the End of Days?”

“Heavens no. The End of Days is a legend of paranoid minds. There is nothing in the Priory doctrine that identifies a date at which the Grail should be unveiled. In fact the Priory has always maintained that the Grail should
never
be unveiled.”

“Never?” Langdon was stunned.

“It is the mystery and wonderment that serve our souls, not the Grail itself. The beauty of the Grail lies in her ethereal nature.” Marie Chauvel gazed up at Rosslyn now. “For some, the Grail is a chalice that will bring them everlasting life. For others, it is the quest for lost documents and secret history. And for most, I suspect the Holy Grail is simply a grand idea . . . a glorious unattainable treasure that somehow, even in today's world of chaos, inspires us.”

“But if the Sangreal documents remain hidden, the story of Mary Magdalene will be lost forever,” Langdon said.

“Will it? Look around you. Her story is being told in art, music, and books. More so every day. The pendulum is swinging. We are starting to sense the dangers of our history . . . and of our destructive paths. We are beginning to sense the need to restore the sacred feminine.” She paused. “You mentioned you are writing a manuscript about the symbols of the sacred feminine, are you not?”

“I am.”

She smiled. “Finish it, Mr. Langdon. Sing her song. The world needs modern troubadours.”

Langdon fell silent, feeling the weight of her message upon him. Across the open spaces, a new moon was rising above the tree line. Turning his eyes toward Rosslyn, Langdon felt a boyish craving to know her secrets.
Don't ask,
he told himself.
This is not the moment
. He glanced at the papyrus in Marie's hand, and then back at Rosslyn.

“Ask the question, Mr. Langdon,” Marie said, looking amused. “You have earned the right.”

Langdon felt himself flush.

“You want to know if the Grail is here at Rosslyn.”

“Can you tell me?”

She sighed in mock exasperation. “Why is it that men simply
cannot
let the Grail rest?” She laughed, obviously enjoying herself. “Why do you think it's here?”

Langdon motioned to the papyrus in her hand. “Your husband's poem speaks specifically of Rosslyn, except it also mentions a blade and chalice watching over the Grail. I didn't see any symbols of the blade and chalice up there.”

“The blade and chalice?” Marie asked. “What exactly do they look like?”

Langdon sensed she was toying with him, but he played along, quickly describing the symbols.

A look of vague recollection crossed her face. “Ah, yes, of course. The blade represents all that is masculine. I believe it is drawn like this, no?” Using her index finger, she traced a shape on her palm.

“Yes,” Langdon said. Marie had drawn the less common “closed” form of the blade, although Langdon had seen the symbol portrayed both ways.

“And the inverse,” she said, drawing again on her palm, “is the chalice, which represents the feminine.”

“Correct,” Langdon said.

“And you are saying that in all the hundreds of symbols we have here in Rosslyn Chapel, these two shapes appear nowhere?”

“I didn't see them.”

“And if I show them to you, will you get some sleep?”

Before Langdon could answer, Marie Chauvel had stepped off the porch and was heading toward the chapel. Langdon hurried after her. Entering the ancient building, Marie turned on the lights and pointed to the center of the sanctuary floor. “There you are, Mr. Langdon. The blade and chalice.”

Langdon stared at the scuffed stone floor. It was blank. “There's nothing
here. . . .”

Marie sighed and began to walk along the famous path worn into the chapel floor, the same path Langdon had seen the visitors walking earlier this evening. As his eyes adjusted to see the giant symbol, he still felt lost. “But that's the Star of Dav—”

Langdon stopped short, mute with amazement as it dawned on him.

The blade and chalice.

Fused as one.

The Star of David . . . the perfect union of male and female . . . Solomon's Seal . . . marking the Holy of Holies, where the male and female deities—Yahweh and Shekinah—were thought to dwell.

Langdon needed a minute to find his words. “The verse
does
point here to Rosslyn. Completely. Perfectly.”

Marie smiled. “Apparently.”

The implications chilled him. “So the Holy Grail is in the vault beneath us?”

She laughed. “Only in spirit. One of the Priory's most ancient charges was one day to return the Grail to her homeland of France where she could rest for eternity. For centuries, she was dragged across the countryside to keep her safe. Most undignified. Jacques's charge when he became Grand Master was to restore her honor by returning her to France and building her a resting place fit for a queen.”

“And he succeeded?”

Now her face grew serious. “Mr. Langdon, considering what you've done for me tonight, and as curator of the Rosslyn Trust, I can tell you for certain that the Grail is no longer here.”

Langdon decided to press. “But the keystone is supposed to point to the place where the Holy Grail is hidden
now
. Why does it point to Rosslyn?”

“Maybe you're misreading its meaning. Remember, the Grail can be deceptive. As could my late husband.”

“But how much clearer could he be?” he asked. “We are standing over an underground vault marked by the blade and chalice, underneath a ceiling of stars, surrounded by the art of Master Masons. Everything speaks of Rosslyn.”

“Very well, let me see this mysterious verse.” She unrolled the papyrus and read the poem aloud in a deliberate tone.

The Holy Grail 'neath ancient Roslin waits.
The blade and chalice guarding o'er Her gates.
Adorned in masters' loving art, She lies.
She rests at last beneath the starry skies.