She crossed the room to meet him face-to-face. “Now for the first time in my life I feel like I may be running toward something. Yes, it’s terrifying, but I know I can’t stop. And I’d rather not face this without you, but I can — and I will — if you choose to leave in the morning.”
Peter listened attentively to her outburst. When she was finished, he nodded to her and turned to go. Standing quietly with his hand on the door for a moment, he turned back to her before leaving.
“I’m not going anywhere. But please don’t make me regret this for the rest of my life. Or yours.”
Peter went back to his room and spent the remainder of the night praying. He found himself ruminating long and hard on the teachings of Ignatius Loyola, the founder of the Jesuit order. One passage in particular, written by the saint in 1556, haunted him.
As the devil showed great skill in tempting men to perdition, equal skill ought to be shown in saving them. The devil studied the nature of each man, seized upon the traits of his soul, adjusted himself to them, and insinuated himself gradually into his victim’s confidence — suggesting splendors to the ambitious, gain to the covetous, delight to the sensuous, and a false appearance of piety to the pious — and a winner of souls ought to act in the same cautious and skillful way.
Sleep was elusive as the words of the founder of his order ran through his heart as well as his mind.
Rome
June 23, 2005
BISHOP MAGNUS O’CONNOR wiped the drop of sweat from his brow. The Vatican Council chamber was air-conditioned, but that was of no help to him at the moment. He sat in the center of a large, oval-shaped table, surrounded by officials of his Church. The red folders he had delivered the previous day were in the hands of the intense and intimidating Cardinal DeCaro, who was acting as interrogator.
“And how do you know these photographs are authentic?” The Cardinal placed the folders on the table, but did not open them yet to reveal the contents to the others.
“I was present when they were taken.” Magnus was trying hard to conquer his stammer, which emerged in stressful situations. “The subject was referred to me by his parish priest.”
Cardinal DeCaro now removed a series of 8 x 10 photographs from the folder. They were taken in black-and-white and had yellowed with time, but this did not diminish the impact of the images as they were passed around the table.
The first to circulate, labeled “Exhibit I,” was a deeply gruesome photograph of a man’s arms, placed side by side and turned palms up. They were inflicted with gaping, bloody wounds in the wrists.
“Exhibit II” showed the man’s feet, both damaged with similarly gruesome, bleeding holes.
The third photo, “Exhibit III,” showed a shirtless man. A jagged and bleeding gash ran underneath his rib cage on the lower right side.
The Cardinal waited for the shocking photographs to make their rounds before returning them to the folders and addressing the members of the Council. The faces around the table were grave as he verified what they all suspected.
“We are looking at authenticated stigmata. All five points and accurate as to the wrists.”
Château des Pommes Bleues
June 24, 2005
SINCLAIR WAS NOWHERE TO BE FOUND the next morning. Maureen and Peter were greeted by Roland, who escorted them to breakfast. Peter wasn’t sure if the extraordinary attention they were receiving was a sign of impeccable hospitality or something more akin to house arrest. Clearly, Sinclair was being very careful not to leave Maureen and Peter on their own.
“Monsieur Sinclair asked me to assure you that you have been provided with excellent costumes for the ball this evening. He is busy with the final preparations for the fête, but has put the chauffeur at your disposal if you would like to tour the local area today. He thought perhaps you would enjoy viewing the Cathar castles in the region. I would be honored to attend you as your guide.”
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 success
ful 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
IN 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:
Let your women keep silence in the churches: for it is not permitted unto them to speak. They are commanded to be under obedience, as also saith the law. And if they will learn anything, let them ask their husbands at home. It is shame for women to speak in the church.
The second was from First Timothy:
Suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence.
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.
THE ARQUES GOSPEL OF MARY MAGDALENE,
THE BOOK OF DISCIPLES
Chapter Ten
Château des Pommes Bleues
June 24, 2005
Maureen and Peter followed the melodious sound of madrigals as they drifted through the halls. Approaching the entrance to the ballroom, they received their first glimpse of Sinclair’s elaborate and sumptuous affair.
Maureen felt as if she had been transported to another time. The cavernous ballroom had been draped in velvet hangings, and flowers and candles adorned the halls by the thousands. Elaborately wigged and costumed servants moved quietly and efficiently through the room, providing food and drink and cleaning up discreetly after the more rambunctious revelers.
; But it was the guests themselves who were the bijoux for this luxurious jewelry box. Their costumes were elaborate and extravagant, period outfits from various eras throughout French and Occitan history, or costumes representing elements of the mystery traditions. An invitation to Sinclair’s event was coveted by the esoteric elite across the globe; delighted recipients went to enormous lengths of time and expense to develop appropriate attire. There was a contest for the most original costume, as well as for the most beautiful and the most humorous. Sinclair was the sole judge and jury, and the prizes he awarded were often worth a small fortune. More important, a win guaranteed a coveted spot on the guest list for next year’s event.
The music, the laughter, the clanking of crystal wineglasses stopped abruptly as Maureen and Peter entered the room.
A liveried man with a trumpet blew a heraldic note as Roland stepped forward, dressed in a simple Cathar robe, to announce their arrival. Maureen was surprised to see Roland dressed as a reveler rather than an employee on this night, but she had little time to contemplate this as she was swept into the entrance.
“It is my privilege to announce our honored guests, Mademoiselle Maureen de Paschal and the Abbé Peter Healy.”
The crowd froze like wax mannequins in their places, staring at the new arrivals. Roland quickly indicated that the band should resume playing to cover the awkward moment. He put his arm out for Maureen and escorted her into the ballroom. The gaping continued, but not as obviously. Those more skilled in decorum had covered their shock with feigned disinterest.