And he stood patiently, staring up at the window, determined not to say another word until one of his students proved worthy of his time with a correct answer. They discussed it aloud, together.
“The man in the middle is actually immersed in water,” Bérenger observed. “The underground stream, secret knowledge.”
Destino nodded. “Yes. More.”
“The wouivre,” Roland offered. “Water sometimes represents the telluric current which runs through the earth, and it is strongest here in Chartres as it runs from here all the way to the Languedoc.”
“Yes, yes,” Destino encouraged him. “We will see more of this current very soon, as midday approaches.”
“Water carriers. They could be symbolic of…cup bearers?” This was Tammy.
“And another way to interpret cup in our esoteric world”—Maureen this time—“is Grail.”
Destino beamed at her. “We in the Order have always called it the Grail window. Now, see here. It is commonly believed that Madonna Magdalene is washing Jesus’ feet with her tears, that she represents the unnamed sinner from the gospel of Luke. But this is a true blasphemy, to call our Lady a sinner. Instead, she is anointing the feet of her beloved with oil, and the symbolism of her unbound hair around him shows that they are preparing for the bridal chamber, which occurs in the gospel of John. For anointing the feet is the beginning of the hieros-gamos, the preparation of the bridegroom by the bride. It is the first step in the sacred marriage, which is why it is the first window in the Magdalene’s story.”
Maureen and the others were certainly aware that Mary Magdalene was not the unnamed sinner in Luke’s gospel, and that the Church had combined these stories in the sixth century to create a vision of her as a repentant prostitute. But outside of Matilda’s autobiography, they had never heard this specific accounting of the anointing with spikenard as a ritual for the bridal chamber.
“The next windows show Magdalene’s presence and participation in resurrection. For it is love that is the key to life over death, and here we are reminded that love comes in many guises, and all of them are strong enough to conquer death. See here first, she is present at the resurrection of her brother, Lazarus. Above that, she is the first to see the risen Lord, and here he is telling her that it is her mission to inform the others of the Good News, and that it is now her responsibility to spread the word of the Way of Love. If you look closely, you will see that she carries a scroll, a symbol of her authority given from him, as she approaches the others to tell them that she has the Book of Love and will teach from it. And here above, you see her on the boat, heading for France. This central diamond depicts the blessed Saint Maximin establishing the first church in Provence. But look to this final window, for it is most important. This represents the earthly death of Madonna Magdalene. You will see at her feet there are three mourners—one older man, a woman, and a younger man. Her children. Standing over her is Maximinus, her great companion who loved her beyond all, and he reads from a book that rests upon a golden stand. I should not have to tell you which book this refers to. It is visible in the connecting panel, where our Lady is mourned and buried. Here at her feet are representations of the sacred lovers, Veronica and Praetorus. The Roman Praetorus is depicted in priestly dress to show you that he has converted to Christianity. Now, do you see this other man here, he who carries the cross? You will not guess who he is, so I shall tell you. That is the formerly wretched Roman centurion called Longinus.”
Peter jumped at this. “Longinus Gaius? The centurion who stabbed Jesus with his spear?”
“The same accursed Longinus. As you must know from your recent studies, he became a devoted Christian at the merciful hands of Madonna Magdalene, and he served her until her death. Longinus is the perfect example of how the most desperate of lost souls can be redeemed through love that does not judge. He earned his place of honor in the telling of this story.”
Destino pointed to the final panel at the top of the window, which showed Jesus in heaven, awaiting the delivery of Mary Magdalene’s pristine soul. “Here she is, her spirit painted in white to show her holiness, carried aloft by angels to be reunited with her only beloved.”
Maureen was crying again. The window was beautiful to her beyond words, depicting as it did the version of Mary Magdalene’s story as she knew it to be true, knew it from the Arques material and from everything she felt in her own heart and spirit. Destino put his hand on the back of her head in a fond, paternal gesture. “Now, my child, you see how we pay our homage to the ladies of the labyrinth before we begin our walk. I believe we are ready. You will go in first, and the rest of us will follow. Go. Your Creator awaits you. Solvitur ambulando.”
Destino had explained that there was no right or wrong way to walk the labyrinth, there was just your own way. But there was an etiquette, and that was to allow the person ahead of you ample time to get into the maze before following him or her. If you passed someone on a circuit coming in or out, you stepped aside silently and allowed the other to pass. When there were multiple people walking at once, the labyrinth became a type of dance with a communal spirit. Each person had his or her own journey, and yet each journey intersected with others along the way. The labyrinth was filled with metaphors for life’s pathways.
Maureen approached the labyrinth, awestruck by the artistic beauty and geometric perfection of the structure. Destino had encouraged her to remove her shoes, advising that the sensation of her feet against the stone was an important part of the ritual, and that she would be wise to observe it. All five of them removed their shoes and left them along the edge of the labyrinth. Maureen entered first, staring down as she walked, observing the elegant twists and turns along the path. She looked up periodically, marveling at the way that light from certain stained glass windows fell upon the labyrinth. She was certain that none of it was accidental. As several wise men had already pointed out, every inch of Chartres Cathedral had been carefully considered.
The light continued to swirl around her, and the specific, magical indigo colors that shone from the enormous western rose danced across the floor, causing Maureen to feel dizzy as she took another turn in the circuit. Her vision blurred as she caught a glimpse of the pile of empty shoes that littered the edge of the labyrinth.
Empty shoes.
Maureen was suddenly overwhelmed by the symbolism as she contemplated the women in this great story that was unfolding through history. Mary Magdalene, Matilda. Both women were left behind for many years following the deaths of their beloved partners. They were left to continue the work, to carry on and ensure that the message would continue. They both faced the challenge of filling those empty shoes. And yet both had been forgotten by history for their true contributions, which were of inestimable value to humankind. Which was the greater tragedy? Maureen knew what each of these women, noble and loyal and full of faith and love, would say. They would say that facing the empty shoes was far harder than any other challenge that their eventful lives had presented to them.
She reached down to touch the copper amulet around her neck with the inscription from the gospel of Luke, “Mary hath chosen the better part, and it shall not be taken from her.” Perhaps this was the true meaning of “the better part.” It was a choice to carry on against all odds, to ensure that the sacred teachings endured, to be the living embodiment of the Way.
As she had this thought, Bérenger Sinclair entered the labyrinth, passing her at a turn in one of the circuits. He looked at her in that moment with so much love that Maureen stopped walking for a moment. Here was one of the lessons for her in the labyrinth, and this was the reminder to enjoy the great love that had been given to her while she was able to do so. Here, now, and without fear.
Maureen approached the center of the labyrinth and silently said the Pater Noster within the six petals, just as Matilda had taught her through the telling of her story. As she completed the prayer, Bérenger entered the center of the six-petaled rose, where she awaited him. Silent
ly, he took both her hands and they stood, facing each other, in the center of the labyrinth where the dazzling first light of summer filtered through ancient glass, to cast bands of blue into the ancient temple of love.
Just before midday, the little group of pilgrims made their way to window 10 to await the arrival of the beam of light that would illuminate the brass spike in the tilted stone. It came, as it always had, right on time. The beam of sun shone through the perfectly round hole and rested on the brass, long enough for it to glitter in the light.
“The wouivre.” Destino smiled, and the scarred side of his face puckered with the explanation. “Its heart is in the earth, beneath us here in the place within the crypt that covered the original mound. This place”—he pointed at the brass spike—“is the precise wellspring of the current. It is nothing less than…the heartbeat of the planet Earth.”
Destino left them with that piece of extraordinary information and the cathedral. Before leaving, he invited them to spend the following day with him in the French headquarters of the Order of the Holy Sepulcher, located on the outskirts of Chartres proper. He explained that it was a sprawling property along the river Eure with a magnificent view of the cathedral from the lower lands. All of them were very much looking forward to seeing this man in his natural habitat and finding out more about him. He was enigmatic, he was mesmerizing, and he was clearly a brilliant source of information. Then there was that little matter of the scar on his face. Could it be possible that as late as the twentieth century, the leaders of the Order were still taking that terrible scar upon themselves? Clearly, this was the case. Maureen wondered at what stage a successor was chosen for the Master, and when the scar was inflicted. Would it be an appropriate question to ask? She wasn’t sure, but she was terribly curious about these old ways that were still handed down in the most ancient of secret societies.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Chartres
present day
They were discussing Destino as the group of five walked back to the hotel to rest for a while before dinner. Peter’s cell phone rang, and Maureen could see by his face that the news he was receiving had him agitated. When he snapped the cover shut, she asked him, “What happened?”
He stopped walking for a moment and the others stopped with him. “I don’t know what to say. That was Tómas DeCaro. He said that the Arques committee has announced that they are going to hold a press conference tomorrow morning regarding the Magdalene material. We think they’re going to authenticate it.”
“But that’s fantastic!” This was Tammy.
Peter shook his head. “Is it? I’m afraid to be optimistic. I have worked with these men for two years, and I am finding this hard to believe, as is Tómas. Barberini is here in France, and they have asked me to come to Paris tonight for an emergency meeting. That’s all I know, other than I have a train to catch in an hour.”
Maureen pleaded a headache and went back to her room alone after seeing Peter head to the train station. Bérenger was tired too, and he also knew that he needed to give her time and space to process all that had happened today. He was learning to understand her moods and rhythms and had often seen that she required time to write and to think; those were her processes, and he gave them to her.
Realizing, however, that she was too tired to do either, Maureen decided to take a nap before dinner. She closed her eyes and was asleep almost instantly. She slept hard for the remainder of the afternoon. She was jolted awake by the ringing of the phone in her room two hours later.
“Maureen, is that you?”
The voice on the other end was Irish. And female. Maureen rubbed the sleep from her eyes as she tried to gather her wits. “Uh-huh,” she said, semicoherent.
“I’m so sorry to bother you, love,” the brogue continued. “It’s Maggie Cusack.”
Peter’s housekeeper. Maureen was instantly awake. “What’s wrong, Maggie?”
“Nothing’s wrong, nothing at all. It’s just that Father Healy rang and he said there is an urgent matter that he needs you to attend to. He wouldn’t tell me much, mind you; he can be very secretive in his way. Not that I ask questions; sure, it’s none of my business.”
Get on with it, Maggie, Maureen was dying to say, but she remained politely quiet.
“Well, here are the directions that he gave exactly. He said you are to go to the door to the crypt at the southern side of the cathedral at eight o’clock precisely and that you are to tell no one—not even Lord Sinclair—that you are going there. He said secrecy is of the utmost importance, and that you will understand it when you get there. But he was most insistent that I convey to you the importance of this. Someone will meet you there, and will tell you more. In the meantime, because the good father is on his way to meetings in Paris, it will be very hard to reach him over the next hours. He did tell me that the authentication is happening and it has to do with that, and that you would understand it all.”
Maureen considered this. It was strange, as Peter was very rarely so clandestine, but this phone call today about the Magdalene material had shaken him visibly. Something of great importance was happening, and if he needed Maureen at the door of the crypt for some reason, she would be there. And he said it was related to the authentication, which made her pulse race with the possibility. She was a little uncertain about lying to Bérenger—because she was due at dinner at 8:30 and would have to make up some kind of excuse to get out of it—but there was nothing else she could do. Eventually she would tell him the truth and apologize for the deception. He came from the world of secret societies; he of all people knew that sometimes these secrets were necessary.
Maggie was pleading on the other end. “Please, Maureen. Don’t let him down on this, or I’m afraid he will have my job. This is terribly important to him.”
“Okay, Maggie, thanks.” Maureen hung up, wondering what on earth was going on.
Maureen was a terrible liar. She realized that she couldn’t effectively fabricate with Bérenger, so she called Tammy and Roland’s room as an alternate strategy. Pleading the fear of an oncoming migraine, she asked Tammy to inform Bérenger that she was going to bed and would see them all in the morning at breakfast. Tammy didn’t sound completely convinced, but she accepted the explanation and rushed off the phone. Maureen had the impression that Tammy and Roland were…occupied. All the better. Tammy asked far fewer questions than usual.
The hotel was large enough that Maureen could slip out unnoticed for her eight o’clock rendezvous. As she climbed the hill toward the cathedral, she hit the speed dial, number two, to see if Peter was available yet in Paris. The call immediately hit his voice mail, indicating that his phone was either turned off or he was out of range. She left a message.
“Hi, it’s me. I talked to Maggie and I am on my way to the crypt. Not sure who is meeting me there, but dying to find out what is happening in the authentication process. Call me when you can.”
She walked around the Royal Portal to the right, along the south side of the cathedral, where the heavy and ancient entrance door to the crypt was located. It was shut, but as Maureen approached it to knock, she heard the hinges creak as it opened slowly. She didn’t see anyone at first; she saw only some candles flickering in the darkness. They threw shadowed light on the stone steps that led down into the crypt.
Maureen nearly jumped out of her skin as an unseen figure reached out to touch her. She turned and saw that the man was dressed head to toe in a dark robe and was virtually invisible in the lightless room. He gestured to the stairs, and she saw as he drew closer to the candlelight that his head was completely covered in a hood, with stitching over the eye sockets. The color was a deep, midnight blue. Maureen realized in a flash, too late, that this was one of the same ominous men she had seen in her dream in Orval. The hooded men to whom her stolen book had been delivered.
The slamming of the exterior door, and the sound of a heavy bolt thrown behind her, punctuated Maureen’s complete understanding of this predicamen
t. She was trapped in the crypt of Chartres Cathedral. And that could only mean one thing: her abductor was a high-ranking member of the Church.
“Enter, Signorina Paschal.” It was a command rather than an invitation, made by an accented voice, raspy with age, coming from down the hallway. Maureen did not see the owner of the voice in the darkness as the hooded figure behind her urged her forward. They had walked another fifteen to twenty feet when the hooded escort grabbed her elbow and stopped abruptly. He snapped his fingers, and another man, identically dressed in his ominous robe and faceless hood, came around a corner carrying a thick beeswax candle in an iron holder. He leaned forward to illuminate the wide semicircular cistern that appeared to be built into the wall.
The man behind Maureen grabbed her by the hair, yanking her head over the well, as the other figure moved the candle down below the rim of the stone surface. Maureen panicked, thinking he was going to throw her in, and grabbed the edge of the well as she let out a scream. Her assailant let go of her hair to cover her mouth and stifle the sound but didn’t attempt to harm her further.
“The fate of Saint Modesta. It will be yours if you do not cooperate in full.” The man who covered her mouth spoke, and she recognized his voice immediately. She would never forget it. It was the voice of the gunman who had robbed them at Orval. “You realize, of course, that no one would ever find your body, should it be necessary to duplicate Modesta’s demise.”
Maureen was led around a corner into a surprisingly large subterranean chapel. There were more candles in this space, and she was able to get a glimpse of the ancient decoration on the wall. Celtic in appearance, it was the oldest art in Chartres, and it added to the mystic intensity of this place. To Maureen’s right was the statue of Notre Dame Sous Terre, Our Lady Under the Earth, but the present company had chosen not to illuminate it. Instead, the candles were reserved for the space at the altar where a plain wooden crate was waiting. Next to the crate sat another man, dressed in the strange hooded costume. He removed his hood as she approached, and Maureen’s heart sank.