The Expected One (18 page)

They accepted the offer and were accompanied through the area by the giant Roland, who provided them with excellent commentary. He showed them the magnificent ruins of the once-mighty Cathar strongholds, describing how the wealthy counts of Toulouse had at one time rivaled the kings of France in terms of power and privilege. The Toulouse nobles were all of Cathar stock, or at the very least highly sympathetic to the Cathar ideals. It was one of the reasons that the vicious Crusades against the Pure Ones had been welcomed by the French king — he was able to confiscate what had once belonged to Toulouse, enlarging his own French holdings and increasing his net worth while diminishing the influence of his rivals.

Roland spoke with pride of his homeland and of their native dialect, called Oc, which gave this region its name. The
langue
(language)
of Oc
became known more simply as the Languedoc. When Peter referred to Roland as a Frenchman during a point of conversation, Roland asserted instantly that he was not French. He was Occitan.

Roland recounted in detail the numerous atrocities that had scarred his land and his people in the thirteenth century. He was passionate about his history.

“Many people outside of France don’t even know about the Cathars, or if they do, they think of a small and unimportant cult tucked away here in the mountains. People don’t realize that the Cathars were the dominant race and culture in a large and prosperous area of Europe. What happened here was nothing less than genocide. Close to a million people were slaughtered by the papal forces.”

He looked at Peter somewhat sympathetically. “I hold no grudges against modern clergy for the sins of the medieval church, Abbé Healy. You are a priest because you have a calling to God, anyone can see that.”

Roland led them in silence after that, as Maureen and Peter marveled at the enormous castles that had been built on jagged mountain peaks almost a thousand years ago. These fortresses were essentially impenetrable, given their location in the mountains, but they were equally unfathomable in terms of architecture. The two visitors wondered about the resources of a culture that was capable of building such immense fortification in a relentless and forbidding landscape without benefit of modern technology.

Over lunch in the village of Limoux, Maureen felt comfortable enough in the company of Roland to ask about his relationship with Sinclair. The sat companionably in a café overlooking the River Aude, the body of water for which the surrounding area was named. The hulking manservant turned out to be surprisingly warm and affable, even humorous, belying his intimidating appearance.

“I grew up at the Château des Pommes Bleues, Mademoiselle,” he explained. “My mother died when I was a baby. My father was in service with both Monsieur Alistair and Monsieur Bérenger, and we lived on the estate. When my father died, I insisted on taking over his position at the château. It is my home, and the Sinclairs are my family.”

Roland’s imposing stature seemed to soften as he spoke of the loss of his parents and his loyalty to the Sinclair family.

“It must have been very hard for you, losing both parents,” Maureen said sympathetically.

Roland stiffened, his spine straightening as he answered. “Yes, Mademoiselle Paschal. As I say, my mother died when I was a baby of a disease that could not be contained. I have accepted that as God’s will. But my father’s death is another matter…my father was murdered senselessly, just a few years ago.”

Maureen gasped. “My God. I’m so sorry, Roland.” She didn’t want to push him for details.

Peter, however, felt that the need to know outweighed his normal inclination to sensitivity and asked the question. “What happened?”

Roland got up from the table to signal the end of the meal and the conversation. “There are bitter rivalries in our land, Abbé Healy. They reach back many years through time and know no reason. This place…it is filled with the most beautiful light. But that light sometimes attracts the most terrible darkness. We fight the darkness as best we can. But as with our ancestors, we do not always win.

“However, one thing is certain. No attempt at genocide has ever been successful here. We are still Cathars, we have always been Cathars, and we will always be Cathars. We may practice our faith quietly and in private, but it is as much a part of our lives today as it has always been. Do not let any history book or scholar tell you otherwise.”

When Maureen returned to the château that afternoon, one of the chambermaids was waiting for her in her room. “The coiffeur will be here soon, Mademoiselle. And your costume has arrived. Please, if there is anything I can get for you…”

“No, merci.” Maureen thanked the maid and closed the door. She wanted to rest before the party. It had been a beautiful day, filled with some of the most extraordinary sights Maureen had ever seen in her travels. But it had exhausted her as well, and she was left more than a little unsettled by Roland’s enigmatic revelations about his father’s murder.

She saw an extra-large garment bag lying across the bed as she crossed the room. Assuming it was the costume for the ball, she unzipped the heavy plastic casing and removed the dress. It took her a moment to realize what it was, then she gasped in recognition.

Holding the dress up to the Ribera painting, she saw that the gown was identical to the voluminous, crimson-skirted confection worn by Mary Magdalene in the Spanish artist’s rendering.

Peter wasn’t thrilled about wearing a costume. He had not planned to attend the ball initially, finding it potentially unseemly for him to do so. However, with the escalated intrigues of Sinclair — and Maureen’s reaction to them — he was determined to keep her within sight. This meant wearing the elaborate thirteenth-century tunic and leggings that had been set out for him.

“Bollocks,” Peter grumbled, as he removed the costume from its wrap and attempted to figure out where his head went.

Peter knocked on Maureen’s door, adjusting his costume awkwardly as he waited in the hallway. The hat might have to go. It was heavy and sat on his head at an uncomfortable angle, a constant reminder that he looked ridiculous.

The door opened, and a transformed Maureen emerged from her room. The Ribera dress fit as if it had been made for her — the lace, off-the-shoulder bodice giving way to a sea of the richest crimson taffeta. Maureen’s long red hair had been coiffed in a way that added fullness and volume, falling around her shoulders in a glossy curtain. But it was the new and surprising air of calm confidence radiating from her that was most noticeable to Peter. It was as if she had stepped into a role that suited her to perfection.

“What do you think? Is it too much?”

“Definitely. But you look…like a vision.”

“Interesting choice of words. Pun intended?”

Peter winked and nodded, happy that they were joking again and that their relationship hadn’t suffered too much from their argument the night before. The excursion through the extraordinary Cathar country had been restorative for both of them.

Peter escorted her down the winding halls of the château, in search of the ballroom in a distant wing. Maureen laughed as he complained about his costume.

“You look very noble and dashing,” she assured him.

“I feel like an absolute eejit,” he replied.

Carcassonne
June 24, 2005

I
N AN ANCIENT STONE CHURCH
outside the walled city of Carcassonne, preparation for an event of another kind was taking place. The expanded membership of the Guild of the Righteous was gathered in solemn earnest. More than two hundred formally robed men attended the service, wearing the heavy red cords of their order tied at their necks.

There were no women in the group. No female had ever profaned the Guild’s halls or their private chapels. Engraved plaques citing Saint Paul’s perspective on women were posted in every Guild location. One was a verse from First Corinthians:

The second was from First Timothy:

Yet while the Guild revered these words of Paul, he was not their messiah.

The relics of their ancestral master were displayed on velvet cushions above the altar — the skull gleamed in the candlelight, and the bony remnants of his right index finger had been removed from their reliquary for this annual display. Following the formal service and the presentation by the Guild Master, each member would be allowed to touch the relics. This was a privilege normally reserved only for members of the Guild council after they swore an oath in blood to uphold the teachings of righteousness. But the annual feast day was a pilgrimage attended by Guild members the world over, and on this night all of the faithful were allowed the honor of touching the relics.

Their leader stepped to the pulpit to begin his introductory speech. John Simon Cromwell’s aristocratic English accent rang out within the ancient stone walls of the church.

“My brothers, tonight, not far from here, the spawn of the whore and the wicked priest have gathered. They celebrate their hereditary uncleanness with debauchery. They intentionally choose to defile this sacred night to flaunt their lascivious evils and show us their perceived strength.

“But we are not cowed by them. We will take our revenge on them soon, a vengeance that has waited two thousand years to see the full light of righteousness. We struck down their wicked shepherd then, and we will strike his descendants now. We will destroy their Grand Master and his puppets. We will eliminate the woman they call their shepherdess and see that this harlot queen is cast into hell before she can spread the lies of the witch she descends from.

“We do this in the name of the First, of the One True Messiah, for he has spoken to me and this is his wish. We do this in the name of the Teacher of Righteousness and with the blessings of the Lord our God.”

Cromwell began the procession of the relics, touching the skull first, and then lingering on the finger bone, reverently. He whispered aloud as he did so.

“Neca eos omnes.”

Kill them all.

…Those who informed me of Paul said that he spoke out against the role of women in The Way. This is the most certain proof that such a man cannot have known the truth of Easa’s teachings or the essence of Easa himself. Easa’s great reverence for women is well known to the elect, and I have served as proof of this.

No one can change that, save that they erase me from history completely.

I am told further that this Paul revered the means of Easa’s death, rather than the words that Easa spoke. This saddens me as a great loss of understanding.

This man Paul was imprisoned by Nero for a long period of time. I am told that he composed many letters to his faithful, giving teachings he claimed were from Easa. But those who came to me say he was not one to speak for The Way, that his teachings were false to our path.

I mourn for any man who was tortured and murdered in the dark realm of that monster Nero. And yet it fills me with fear. I fear that this man Paul will be seen as a great martyr for The Way, and that many will believe his false teachings to be those of Easa.

They are not.

T
HE
A
RQUES
G
OSPEL OF
M
ARY
M
AGDALENE,
T
HE
B
OOK OF
D
ISCIPLES