As the messages began to play, Derek steeled himself against the Oxford accent that grew progressively more menacing with each message. By the final words of the eighth voice mail, Derek knew what had to be done.
Château des Pommes Bleues
June 25, 2005
TAMARA WISDOM BRUSHED HER GLOSSY BLACK HAIR while looking into the gargantuan gilded mirror. Vibrant morning sunlight illuminated her room, which was every inch as palatial as Maureen’s. Roses in shades of cream and lavender were clustered in crystal vases on every table. Purple velvets and heavy brocades draped her enormous bed, a place that she rarely occupied alone.
She smiled, allowing herself to bask briefly in the warmth of memories from the night before. The heat of his body had left an impression on her skin long after he had taken his leave of her just before dawn. In her wild and experiential attitude toward life she had known many great passions, but none had ever been quite like this. She finally understood what the alchemists meant when they spoke of the Great Work, the perfect union of a man and a woman — a joining of body, mind, and spirit.
Her smile faded as she came back to the reality of what must be done today.
It had all been so much fun at first, like a great game of chess played across two continents. She had grown to care about Maureen very quickly. They all had. Even the priest had not turned out to be the meddlesome creature they had feared. He was a mystic in his own way, a far cry from the rigid dogmatist they had anticipated.
Then there was the question of her own deepening involvement. The Mata Hari element had been amusing at first, but now it was becoming repellent. She would have to balance this very carefully today in order to obtain the information she needed, yet not lose herself in the deal. She had several goals to accomplish today, for herself, for the Society, and for Roland. Keep the big picture in mind, Tammy, she reminded herself. There is everything to gain if you are successful, and everything to lose if you fail.
The game had changed. And it was becoming far more perilous than any of them had anticipated.
Tammy set the brush down and splashed a heady floral fragrance on her pulse points and her throat, making preparations for what was to come. As she turned to leave the room, she stopped before the astonishing painting that graced her wall. It was by the French symbolist Gustave Moreau, and it depicted the princess Salome, draped in her seven veils and holding the head of John the Baptist on a platter.
“That’s my girl,” Tammy whispered to herself as she departed on her latest and most crucial piece of intrigue.
Maureen dined alone in the breakfast room. Roland, walking through the adjoining hallway, noticed and entered.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Paschal. You are alone?”
“Good morning, Roland. Yes. Peter was still asleep, and I didn’t want to disturb him.”
Roland nodded. “I have a message for you from your friend Miss Wisdom. She is now staying here at the château and would like to join you here for dinner tonight.”
“That would be great.” Maureen was anxious to catch up with Tammy and recap the party. “Where is she?”
Roland shrugged. “She left early this morning for Carcassonne. Something to do with the film she is making. She gave me only this message for you. Now, Mademoiselle, I will go and find Monsieur Bérenger as he would be most distressed to find you dining alone.”
Sinclair interrupted Maureen’s thoughts, arriving very quickly in the breakfast room following Roland’s departure.
“Did you get some sleep?”
“How can you help it in that bed? It’s like sleeping on clouds.” Maureen had noted the first night that there was a massive feather mattress beneath the expensive Egyptian cotton sheets.
“Superb. Have you plans this morning?”
“Not until eleven. I’m meeting Jean-Claude today, remember?”
“Yes, of course. He’s taking you to Montsegur. Astonishing place. My only regret is that I won’t be the one to show it to you for the first time.”
“Would you like to join us?”
Sinclair laughed. “My dear, Jean-Claude would have me hung, drawn, and quartered if I tagged along with you today. You’re the star of the region now, after your big debut last night. Everyone wants to know more about you. You will raise Jean-Claude’s stock in the region by one hundred points once he is seen squiring you around.
“But I shall not begrudge him that. I have something of my own to show you, once you have finished your breakfast, something that I am sure you will find entirely memorable.”
They were standing on the same balcony where they had watched the fireworks the night before. The extraordinary château gardens fanned out before them.
“The gardens are much easier to see and appreciate in the daylight,” Sinclair said proudly, pointing out that there were three separated sections. “See how they form a fleur-de-lis pattern?”
“They’re magnificent.” Maureen was entirely honest. The gardens were stunning in their sculptural beauty as seen from above.
“They can tell the story of our ancestors far better than I can on my own. It would be my honor to show them to you. Shall we?”
Maureen took his arm as he led her down the stairs and through the atrium. She noticed that the house was spotless, despite several hundred revelers having traipsed through the previous night. Servants must have worked nonstop to clean up the debris. There was no sign of anything other than sparkling order in the château.
They moved through the huge French doors and out to the marbled patio, following the perfectly meticulous path toward the ornate golden gates. Sinclair removed a key from his pocket and slipped it into the solid padlock. He loosened the chain and pushed on the gilded bars, allowing them to enter his inner sanctum.
A gleaming fountain of pink marble gurgled before them, the centerpiece of the garden entrance. Sun glittered off the water droplets as they fell across the shoulders of a life-size sculpture of Mary Magdalene, carved in ivory-colored marble. In her left hand, the icon held a rose; perched on her outstretched right hand was a dove. The base of the fountain was carved with the omnipresent fleurs-de-lis.
“You met a lot of people last night. All of them have theories about this region and the mysterious treasure. I’m sure you heard many, from the sublime to the ridiculous.”
Maureen laughed. “Mostly ridiculous, but yes.”
Sinclair smiled at her. “All of them have their theories, and all of them believe — or shall I say know — that Mary Magdalene is our queen here in the south of France. That is, in fact, the only thing that everyone in that room last night does agree upon.”
Maureen was listening carefully. Sinclair’s voice had an air of excitement, anticipation. It was contagious.
“And they all know that there is a bloodline. A royal lineage that stems from Mary Magdalene and her children. But very few of them know the whole truth. The entire story is reserved for those who are true followers of The Way. The Way as it was taught by our Magdalene, The Way as it was taught by Jesus Christ Himself.”
Maureen stopped him, a little hesitant. “I don’t know if it’s appropriate for me to ask this or not, but is this the goal of your Society of Blue Apples?”
“The Society of Blue Apples is ancient and complex. I will tell you more about it in time. But for now, suffice it to say that the Society exists to defend and preserve the truth.
“And the truth is that Mary Magdalene was the mother of three children.”
Maureen was stunned. “Three?”
Sinclair nodded. “Very few people know the story in its entirety, because the details were intentionally obscured for the protection of the descendants. Three children. A trinity. And each founded a line of royal blood that would change the face of Europe, and ultimately the world. These gardens celebrate the dynasty established by each child. My grandfather created all of this. I expanded it and have committed myself to preserving it.”
Three separate archways branched off from the main
garden.
“Come, we will begin with our own ancestor.”
He steered an overwhelmed Maureen through the center gate. “What is it? Are you surprised that we’re related? Very distantly, no doubt, but we come from the same bloodline originally.”
“I’m just taking it all in. This is common knowledge for you, but it’s shocking to me. I can’t imagine how the rest of the world would feel about it.”
They entered a rose garden of extraordinary lushness. Surrounding another statue, several species of lily were planted in a circle. This combination created the magnificent scent Maureen had experienced the night before.
A white dove cooed and flew over the exquisite, intertwining roses as Sinclair and Maureen walked together in silence. Maureen paused to inhale deeply from a rich red rose in full bloom.
“Roses. Symbolic for all females of the bloodline. And lilies. The lily is a specific symbol of Mary Magdalene. The rose can refer to any woman who is descended, but in our tradition, no one is allowed the lily but her.”
He steered Maureen toward the dominant statue, a depiction of a willowy-looking young woman with flowing hair.
Maureen was having difficulty finding her voice. Her question was little more than a whisper. “This is the daughter?”
“May I introduce you to Sarah-Tamar, the only daughter of Jesus Christ and Mary Magdalene. The founder of the French royal dynasties. And our mutual great-grandmother, nineteen hundred years removed.”
Maureen stared at the statue before turning to Sinclair. “It’s all so incredible. And yet, I’m not finding it at all difficult to accept. So strange and yet it just seems…right.”
“That’s because your soul recognizes the truth.”
A dove cooed in agreement from the rose bushes.
“You hear the doves? They are the symbol of Sarah-Tamar, emblems of her pure heart. They later became the symbol of her descendants — the Cathars.”
“And this is why the Cathars were wiped out as heretics by the Church?”
“Yes, in part. Because they could prove through certain objects and documents in their possession that they were descendants of Jesus and Mary, and that made their very existence a threat to Rome. Men, women, children. The Church tried to exterminate them all to keep the secret. But there’s more to it. Come.”
Sinclair led Maureen in a semicircle through the roses, giving her an opportunity to experience the beauty of the garden in the summer sunshine of a golden Languedoc morning. He took her hand and she allowed it, feeling surprisingly comfortable with this eccentric stranger. She followed as he led her gently back through the archway and around the fountain of Mary Magdalene.
“Time to meet little brother.” Maureen could sense his excitement building again and wondered how it must feel to keep a secret of this magnitude. She thought briefly and with a pang of trepidation that she would soon know firsthand.
Sinclair moved them through the far right archway, into a more precise and manicured garden. “This looks very English,” Maureen observed.
“Very well done, my dear. And now I shall show you why.”
A statue of a long-haired young man holding a chalice aloft was the focal point of the large and central fountain in this section. Crystal-clear water poured from the chalice.
“Yeshua-David, the youngest child of Jesus and Mary. He never knew his father as the Magdalene was pregnant with him at the crucifixion. He was born in Alexandria, in Egypt, where his mother and her entourage took refuge before setting sail for France.”
Maureen stopped cold. Unconsciously, she put her hand to her belly.
“What’s wrong?”
“She was pregnant. I saw it. She was pregnant on the Via Dolorosa and…at the crucifixion.”
Sinclair began to nod in his matter-of-fact way, then stopped abruptly. Now it was Maureen’s turn to ask.
“What is it?”
“Did you say the crucifixion? Did you have a vision of the crucifixion?”
Maureen was beginning to feel a lump in her throat and tears burning the back of her eyes. She was afraid to speak for a moment, fearful that her voice would crack. Sinclair saw it and spoke with increased gentleness.
“Maureen, love, you can trust me. Tell me, please. Did you have a vision of the Magdalene at the crucifixion?”
The tears came unbidden, yet Maureen didn’t feel the need to stifle them. There was release, if not safety, in sharing this with someone who understood. “Yes,” she whispered. “It happened at Notre-Dame.”
Sinclair reached up and brushed the tear from her face. “My dear, my dear Maureen. Do you know how extraordinary that is?”
Maureen shook her head. Sinclair continued softly. “In all of the local history, hundreds of descendants have had dreams and visions of Our Lady, myself included. But the visions stop before Good Friday. To my knowledge, no one else has ever had a complete vision of her at the crucifixion.”
“And why is that so important?”
“The prophecy.”
Maureen waited for the explanation she knew would come.
“There is a prophecy that has been handed down for as long as anyone here can remember. Legend says that it was part of a larger book of prophecies and revelations that once existed in writing, in Greek. The book was attributed to Sarah-Tamar, so it would have been a gospel in its own right. We know that an important bloodline princess, Mathilda of Tuscany, the duchess of Lorraine, possessed the original book when she built the Abbey of Orval in the eleventh century.
“Where is Orval?”
“On what is now the Belgian border. There are several very important religious settlements in Belgium that pertain to our story, but Orval is where Sarah-Tamar’s prophecies were secured for a number of years. We know that the original of her book was later in the possession of the Languedoc Cathars for some time after that. Sadly, it disappeared from history, and very little is known about what happened to it. Our only insight into its contents comes from Nostradamus.”
“Nostradamus?” Maureen’s head was spinning. She thought she would never cease to be shocked at all the threads and how they connected.
Sinclair rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes. He gets all the credit for his astonishing vision and clairvoyance, but they weren’t his prophecies at all. They were Sarah-Tamar’s. Apparently Nostradamus had access to a hand-copied version of the original when he visited Orval. That copy disappeared shortly thereafter, so draw your own conclusions about its fate.”
Maureen laughed. “No wonder Tammy speaks of him so disparagingly. Nostradamus was a plagiarist.”
“And a very clever one. We have to credit him with creating the quatrains. Those were entirely his invention. He just rewrote Sarah-Tamar’s prophecies in a way that would disguise the original source and have maximum impact in his own time. Old Michel was quite brilliant, actually. And his extensive understanding of alchemy gave him the ability to decode what must have been a very complicated document.
“But we have little left of our Sarah-Tamar, outside of the Nostradamus work and the single prophecy that is ingrained into some of us down here.”
“And what does that prophecy say?”
Sinclair looked up at the water splashing from the chalice. He closed his eyes then and recited a portion of the prophecy.
“ ‘Marie de Negre shall choose when the time is come for The Expected One. She who is born of the paschal lamb when the day and night are equal, she who is a child of the resurrection. She who carries the Sangre-El will be granted the key upon viewing the Black Day of the Skull. She will become the new Shepherdess of The Way.’ ”
Maureen was numb. Sinclair took her hand again. “The Black Day of the Skull. Golgotha, the hill of the crucifixion, translates to ‘the place of the skull’ and the Black Day is what we now call Good Friday. The prophecy indicates that the bloodline daughter who has a vision of the crucifixion will then subsequently have the key.”
“The key to what?” Maureen was still unclear. Her head was
swimming with the information.
“The key to unlock Mary Magdalene’s secret. Her gospel. A first-person account of her life and times. She hid it using a type of alchemy, you know. It can only be found when certain spiritual criteria have been met.”
He gestured to the statue of the young man in the fountain and specifically to the chalice he was holding. “That is what so many have searched for, for such a long time.”
Maureen was trying to think and order the myriad thoughts running across her mind. The chalice. It clicked. “The chalice he’s holding — is it the Holy Grail?”
“Yes. The word ‘grail’ comes from an ancient term, Sangre-El, meaning the Blood of God. Symbolic of the divine bloodline, of course. But they weren’t just searching for the general children of the bloodline. Most of the Grail knights were of the blood themselves, and they were well aware of what that legacy meant. No, they were searching for a specific descendant: a Grail princess who is also known as The Expected One. She is the daughter who held the key that they all wanted.”
“Wait a minute. You’re telling me that the quest for the Holy Grail was the search for the woman of your prophecy?”
“In part, absolutely. This youngest child, Yeshua-David, went to Glastonbury in England with his great-uncle, the man known to history as Joseph of Arimathea. Together, they founded the first Christian settlement in Britain. From there, the Grail legends were born.”
Sinclair gestured to another statue within the same garden structure, but in the distance. It appeared to be a king wielding an enormous sword.
“Why do you think King Arthur was known as the Once and Future King? Because of his blood descent from Yeshua-David. There is British nobility descended from him to this day. Much of it in Scotland.”
“Including you.”
“Yes, on my mother’s side. But I’m also descended from the Sarah-Tamar line on my father’s side, as you are.”
An incongruous beeping interrupted him. He cursed and picked up the cell phone, speaking rapidly in French, then clicking it off.
“That was Roland. Jean-Claude has arrived to take you away from me.”