The Expected One (15 page)
Authors: Kathleen McGowan
Tags: #Fiction, #Religious, #Thrillers, #General, #Mystery, #Historical, #Religion, #Contemporary, #Adult, #Thriller
He bowed elaborately, with a quick wink at Maureen, and swept out of the room.
Maureen entered the bedroom and her jaw dropped in awe. The suite was magnificent. As enormous, canopied four-poster bed, draped in red velvet hangings embroidered with the ubiquitous golden fleurs-de-lis, dominated the space. The rest of the furniture was obviously antique, all of it gilded.
A portrait titled
Mary Magdalene in the Desert,
by the Spanish master Ribera, covered one wall of the room. Mary Magdalene’s eyes lifted up toward the heavens. Heavy Baccarat crystal vases filled with red roses and white lilies were scattered throughout the room, reminiscent of the flower arrangements Sinclair had sent to Maureen’s home in Los Angeles.
“A girl could get used to this,” she said to herself, as the servants knocked on the door and began to unpack her bag.
Peter’s room was smaller than Maureen’s, yet still ornate and fit for royalty. His own suitcase had not arrived yet, but he had his carry-on, which was sufficient for his immediate purposes. He removed his leather-bound Bible and crystal rosary beads from the black bag.
Peter clutched the beads and dropped onto the bed. He was tired — worn-out from the journey and exhausted by the weighty responsibility he felt for Maureen’s welfare, physically and spiritually. Now he was in uncharted territory, and it made him nervous. He didn’t trust Sinclair. Worse, he didn’t trust his cousin’s reaction to Sinclair. The man’s money and physical appearance obviously created a mystique that held an attraction for women.
At least he knew that Maureen wasn’t someone to be swept away easily. In fact, Peter knew of very few relationships she had ever had with men. Maureen’s perspective on romance had been damaged by her mother’s hatred of her father. That their toxic marriage had ended in tragedy was Maureen’s reason for staying away from anything that resembled a relationship.
Still, she was female and she was human. And she was very vulnerable where her visions were concerned. Peter intended to make it his business to see that Sinclair did not use Maureen’s vulnerability to manipulate her. He wasn’t sure how much Sinclair knew yet — or how he knew it — but he was determined to find out as soon as possible.
Peter closed his eyes and began to pray for guidance, but his silent prayers were interrupted by an insistent humming sound. He tried to ignore the vibration at first but gave in to it finally. Crossing the room to where his traveling bag rested, Peter reached inside and answered the cell phone.
Thankfully, Peter’s room was just down the hallway from Maureen’s, otherwise they might have never found each other in the vast Sinclair mansion. Maureen was entranced with the house, absorbing every detail of art and architecture as they passed from one wing to the next.
They were on their way to investigate the exterior of the château together as it would be several hours until dinner. Both were too fascinated by their surroundings to leave them unexplored. They entered a broad hallway that was illuminated with natural light from a leaded crystal window. An enormous and unusual mural depicting a somewhat abstract crucifixion scene adorned the length of the hall.
Maureen stopped to admire the work. Beside the crucified Christ, a woman in a red veil held up three fingers as a tear slid down her face. She stood beside a body of water — a river? — from which three small fish, one red and two blue, leaped into the air. Both the pattern of the three fish and the woman’s raised finger echoed the fleur-de-lis pattern in an abstract way.
There were countless details in the elaborate and obviously modern work of art. Maureen was sure they were all symbolic, but it would take hours to view every one of them — and probably years to understand them.
Peter stood back to view the crucifixion scene, which was beautiful in its simplicity. The sky above the cross was darkened by what appeared to be a black sun, and a bolt of lightning ripped through the sky.
“It resembles Picasso’s style, doesn’t it?” Peter said.
Their host appeared at the end of the hallway. “It’s by Jean Cocteau, France’s most prolific artist and one of my personal heroes. He painted it here while a guest of my grandfather.”
Maureen was dumbfounded. “Cocteau stayed here? Wow. This house must be a national treasure for France. All of the artwork is phenomenal. The painting in my room…”
“The Ribera? It’s my personal favorite Magdalene portrait. It captures her beauty and divine grace more than any other. Exquisite.”
Peter was incredulous. “But you can’t be saying it’s an original. I’ve seen it in the Prado.”
“Oh, but it is original. Ribera painted it at the request of the king of Aragon. He painted two, actually. And you’re quite right, the smaller of them is in the Prado. The Spanish king gave this to another of my ancestors, a member of the Stuart family, as a peace offering. As you will see, fine art has a strong association with Our Lady. I will show you further examples of this over dinner later. But if you don’t mind my asking, where are you going now?”
Maureen answered him. “We were just going to take a walk before dinner. I saw some ruins up on the hill as we drove in and wanted to take a closer look.”
“Yes, of course. But I would be most honored to act as your tour guide. If that is acceptable with Father Healy, of course?”
“Of course.” Peter smiled, but Maureen noticed the tightness at the edges of his mouth as Sinclair took her arm.
Rome
June 23, 2005
T
HE SUN SHONE MORE BRIGHTLY
in Rome than anywhere else in the world, or at least that was how Bishop Magnus O’Connor felt as he strode across the hallowed stones of St. Peter’s Basilica. He all but swooned with the honor of having access to the private chapel.
As he entered the hallowed ground, he paused before the marble statue of Peter holding the keys to the church and kissed the saint’s bare feet. Then he waddled to the front of the church, settling into the first pew. He gave thanks to his Lord for bringing him to this holy place. He prayed for himself, he prayed for his bishopric, and he prayed for the future of Holy Mother Church.
When he had completed his devotions, Magnus O’Connor entered the office of Tomas Cardinal DeCaro carrying the red file folders that had been his ticket to the Vatican.
“They’re all here, Your Grace.”
The Cardinal thanked him. If O’Connor had expected an invitation to join the Cardinal in any prolonged discussion, he was to be highly disappointed. Cardinal DeCaro excused him with a curt nod of his head, and not another word.
DeCaro was anxious to see the contents of the folders, but he preferred to do so for the first time without an audience.
He opened the first of the file folders, all of which were labeled in bold black:
EDOUARD PAUL PASCHAL
.
…I have not written yet about the Great Mother, the Great Mary. I have waited this long for I have often wondered if I had the words that would do justice to her goodness, her wisdom, and her strength. In the life of every woman, there will always be the influence and teachings of one woman who stands supreme. For me this could only be the Great Mary, the mother of Easa.
My own mother died when I was very small. I do not remember her. And while Martha always cared for me and attended to my worldly needs as a sister, it was Easa’s mother who provided my spiritual instruction. She nurtured my soul and taught me the many lessons of compassion and forgiveness. She showed me what it was to be a queen and schooled me in the behaviors appropriate to a woman of our charted destiny.
When the time came for me to step into the red veil and become a true Mary, I was prepared. Because of her, and all that she gave me.
The Great Mary was a model of obedience, but hers was an obedience only to the Lord. She heard the messages of God with utter clarity. Her son had this same ability, and it is why they were set apart from others who had also come from noble birth. Yes, Easa was a child of the Lion, the heir to the throne of David, and his mother descended from the great priestly caste of Aaron. She was born a queen and Easa a king. But it was not mere blood that set them apart from all others; it was their spirit and the strength of their faith in God’s message to us.
Had I done nothing but walk in her shadow for all of my days, I would have been blessed to do so.
The Great Mary was the first woman in memory to be so gifted with clear knowledge of the divine. This was a challenge to the high priests, who did not know how to accept a woman of such power. But nor could they condemn her. The Great Mary had a blood lineage that was untainted, and her heart and spirit were beyond reproach. Her unblemished reputation was known across many lands.
Men of power feared her, for they could not control her. She answered only to God.
T
HE
A
RQUES
G
OSPEL OF
M
ARY
M
AGDALENE,
T
HE
B
OOK OF
D
ISCIPLES
Château des Pommes Bleues
June 23, 2005
S
inclair lead Maureen and Peter out on a cobbled path that led away from the vast house. The rugged foothills of rich red rock surrounded them, crowned by the ruins of a craggy castle on a nearby hill.
Maureen was enthralled by the breathtaking scenery. “This place is stunning. It has such a mystical feel to it.”
“We’re in the heart of Cathar country. This entire region was once dominated by the Cathars. The Pure Ones.”
“How did they get that title?”
“Their teachings came in a pure, unbroken line from Jesus Christ. Through Mary Magdalene. She was the founder of Catharism.”
Peter looked wildly skeptical, but it was Maureen who voiced the doubt. “Why have I never read that anywhere?”
Bérenger Sinclair just laughed, not the least bit concerned about whether or not they found him credible. He was a man so comfortable with his beliefs and so confident in himself that the opinions of others held no validity for him.
“No, and you won’t read it either. The real history of the Cathars isn’t in any history books, and you can’t research it with any authenticity anywhere but here. The truth of the Cathar people lies in the red rocks of the Languedoc and nowhere else.”
“I’d love to read about them,” Maureen said. “Can you recommend any books that you feel are authentic?”
Sinclair shrugged and shook his head. “Very few, and virtually none that I find credible have been translated into English. The majority of books on Cathar history are based on confessions extracted during torture. Virtually all medieval accounts of the Cathar people were written by their enemies. How accurate do you think those are? Maureen, I would expect you to understand that principle based on your own re-examining of history. No authentic Cathar practice has ever been committed to writing. Their traditions have been passed down by families in this area for two thousand years, but they are fiercely protected oral traditions.”
“Didn’t Tammy say there was an official Crusade against them?” Maureen asked as they continued on the winding path into the red hills.
Sinclair nodded. “A savage act of genocide, killing over a million people and launched by the ironically named Pope Innocent III. Have you ever heard the phrase ‘Kill them all and let God sort them out’?”
Maureen cringed. “Yes, of course. It’s a barbaric sentiment.”
“It was first uttered in the thirteenth century, by the papal troops who butchered the Cathars at Béziers. To be precise, they said, ‘Neca eos omnes. Deus suos agnoset,’ which translates as ‘Kill them all. God will recognize his own.’ ”
He turned to Peter abruptly. “Recognize it?”
Peter shook his head, not sure where Sinclair was going with this, but unwilling to fall into an intellectual trap.
“It’s borrowed from your Saint Paul. From Second Timothy, chapter two, verse nineteen. ‘The Lord knoweth them that are his.’ ”
Peter put up his hand to stop Sinclair. “You can hardly blame Paul for the fact that his words were corrupted.”
“Can’t I? I believe I just did. Paul sticks in my craw, to be sure. And it’s no accident that our enemies have used his words against us for many centuries. That is only the beginning.”
Maureen attempted to diffuse the increasing tension between the two men, bringing Sinclair back to the local history.
“What happened at Béziers?”
“Neca eos omnes. Kill them all,” Sinclair repeated. “And that is precisely what the Crusaders did in our beautiful town of Béziers. They put every soul to the sword — from the most elderly to the tiniest infant. Not one person was spared by the butchers. Perhaps as many as a hundred thousand were murdered in that siege alone. Legend says that our hills are red to this day in mourning for the slaughtered innocents.”
They walked in silence for a few moments, out of respect for the departed souls of this ancient land. The massacres had occurred almost eight centuries prior, yet there was a sense of these lost spirits all around, a presence that hung on every breeze that blew across the foothills of the Pyrenees. This was and would always be Cathar country.
Sinclair resumed his lecture. “Of course, a number of Cathars escaped, taking refuge in Spain, Germany, and Italy. They preserved their secrets and their teachings, but no one knows what became of their greatest treasure.”
“What treasure was that?” Peter asked.
Sinclair looked around him, his inextricable connection to the land evident in his expression. This place and its history were etched into his soul. No matter how many times he related these stories, each telling revealed his unparalleled passion.
“There are a great many legends about what the Cathar treasures actually consisted of. Some say it was the Holy Grail, others claim it was the real shroud of Christ or the crown of thorns. But the true treasure was one of the two most sacred books ever written. The Cathars were the custodians of the Book of Love, the one — the only — true gospel.”
He paused for emphasis, before adding the exclamation point.
“The Book of Love was the one true gospel because it was written entirely in the hand of Jesus Christ himself.”
Peter stopped dead in his tracks at this revelation. He stared at Sinclair.
“What’s the matter, Father Healy? They didn’t teach you about the Book of Love in the seminary?”
Maureen looked equally incredulous. “Do you think such a thing really ever existed?”
“Oh, it existed. It was brought from the Holy Land by Mary Magdalene and passed down with extreme caution by her descendants. It’s highly likely that the Book of Love was the true purpose behind the Crusades against the Cathars. The officials of the Church were desperate to get their hands on that book, but not to protect and treasure it, I can assure you.”
“The Church would never damage something so priceless and sacred,” Peter scoffed.
“No? And what if such a document could be authenticated? And what if that authenticated document disputed not only many of the tenets, but the very authority of the Church itself? In Christ’s own hand? What then, Father?”
“That’s pure speculation.”
“You are entitled to your opinion, as I am to mine. However, mine is based in the knowledge of highly protected facts. But to continue with my…speculation, the Church was successful in its quest on some level. After the open persecution of the Cathars, the Pure Ones were forced underground and the Book of Love disappeared forever. Very few people today even realize it ever existed. Quite a task, to eliminate the existence of something so powerful from history.”
Peter had been deep in concentration during Sinclair’s speech. He spoke after another contemplative minute. “You said the true treasure was
one of the two
most sacred books ever written. If a gospel written in Jesus’ own hand is one, what could the other possibly be?”
Bérenger Sinclair stopped and closed his eyes. The summer winds, similar to the mistrals farther east in Provence, were brewing, blowing his hair around his face. He took a deep breath, then opened his eyes and looked straight into Maureen’s as he answered.
“The other is the Gospel of Mary Magdalene, a pure and perfect account of her life with Jesus Christ.”
Maureen was frozen. She stared back at Sinclair, trapped by his expression of passion.
Peter broke the spell. “Did the Cathars claim to have that in their possession as well?”
Sinclair looked away from Maureen after another second, then shook his head as he answered Peter. “No, they didn’t. Unlike the Book of Love, which had historical witnesses, no one has ever seen Magdalene’s gospel. Probably because it has never been found. It is believed that it may have been hidden near the village of Rennes-le-Château, where you visited earlier. Did Tammy show you the Tower of Alchemy?”
Maureen nodded. Peter was too busy trying to discern how Sinclair knew so much about their movements. Maureen was beyond caring, too caught up in the living history — and in Sinclair’s unabashed love of it. “She did, but I still don’t really understand why it’s so important.”
“It’s important for many reasons, but for our purposes here and now, it is believed by some that Mary Magdalene lived and wrote her gospel on the site where the tower now stands. She hid the documents, then sealed them in a cave somewhere, where they would remain until the time was right to reveal her version of events.”
Sinclair pointed to a series of large holes resembling caverns in the mountains around them. “See those craters in the mountain? They’re scars made by treasure seekers over the last hundred years.”
“They’re looking for these gospels?”
Sinclair’s laugh was a small, wry sound. “Ironically, most of them don’t even know what they’re looking for. Utterly clueless. They know the legend of the Cathar treasure, or they’ve read one of the many books on Saunière and his mysterious wealth. But most don’t know what it is. Some think it’s the Holy Grail or the Ark of the Covenant, while others are sure it’s the looted treasure from the Temple of Jerusalem or a hoard of Visigoth gold in a hidden tomb.
“Utter the word ‘treasure’ and otherwise rational human beings become instant savages. People have traveled here from all over the world for centuries to solve the mysteries of the Languedoc. Believe me, I’ve seen it many times. Treasure hunters used dynamite to create those caves up there. Without my permission, I might add.”
Sinclair pointed out more ragged caverns in the mountainside, then continued with his explanation.
“Protecting the nature of the treasure became as important as the treasure itself to the Cathars, which is why so few people in this modern age even know these gospels existed. Look at the devastation wrought here even based on speculation. You can imagine what they would do to our land if people were to discover the priceless and sacred nature of the true treasure trove.”
Sinclair regaled them with further local legends of treasure, as well as the more sordid stories of unscrupulous seekers who had ravaged the natural resources of the area. He told them how the Nazis had sent teams here during the war in an effort to uncover occult artifacts that they believed to be buried in the region. As far as anyone knew, Hitler’s troops were unsuccessful in their search and ultimately left the area empty-handed — and lost the war shortly thereafter.
Peter was subdued and quiet, content to hang back and allow the vast amount of information to settle in. Later, he would sort through the details and determine how much was potentially true and how much was Sinclair’s Languedoc romanticism. It would be easy to get caught up in legends of the Grail and of lost holy manuscripts in such a raw and mystical place as this. Yet even Peter felt his pulse quicken at the very idea of the existence of such artifacts.
Maureen walked with Sinclair, listening carefully. Peter wasn’t sure if it was Maureen the journalist and author or Maureen the single woman who was hanging on Sinclair’s every word. But she was rapt, her attention utterly focused on the charismatic Scot.
As they rounded a corner at the top of a small hill, a stone tower resembling a castle turret appeared to spring out of the side of the slope. It stood several stories tall, singular and incongruous in the rocky landscape.
“This looks like Saunière’s tower!” Maureen exclaimed.
“We call it Sinclair’s Folly. Built by my grandfather. And yes, he modeled it after Saunière’s. Our view isn’t quite as dramatic as the one from Rennes-le-Château because we’re lower in elevation, but it’s still quite lovely. Care to see it?”
Maureen looked over at a preoccupied Peter to see if he wanted to explore the tower. He shook his head. “I’ll stay down here. You go on up.”
Sinclair removed a key from his pocket and unlocked the door to the tower. He entered first, leading Maureen up a steep set of spiral stairs. He opened a door onto a rooftop deck and gestured for Maureen to go ahead of him.
The view of Cathar country and the ruined and ancient châteaux in the distance was magnificent. Maureen savored the vista for a moment before asking Sinclair, “Why did he build it?”
“Same reason Saunière built his. Bird’s-eye view. They believed you could glimpse many secrets from above.”
Maureen leaned on the rampart and groaned with frustration. “Why is everything a riddle? You promised answers, but so far you’ve only given me more questions.”
“Why don’t you ask the voices in your head? Or better still, the woman in your visions? She’s the one who brought you here.”
Maureen was stunned. “How do you know about her?”
Sinclair’s smile was knowing, but not smug.
“You’re a female of the Paschal blood. It’s to be expected. Do you know about the origins of your family name?”
“Paschal? My father was born in Louisiana of French descent, like everyone else in the bayou.”
“Cajun?”
Maureen nodded. “From what I understand. He died when I was young. I don’t remember much about him.”
“Do you know where the word ‘Cajun’ comes from? ‘Arcadian.’ The French who settled in Louisiana were called Arcadians, which evolved via local dialect into ‘Acadian’ and then to ‘Cajun.’ Tell me, have you ever looked up the word ‘paschal’ in an English dictionary?”