Maureen approached the painting with reverence, admiring the artistry and the color used by early twentieth-century British artist Frank Cadogan Cowper. The painting depicted Lucrezia Borgia enthroned on high in the Vatican, surrounded by a lavish sea of red-robed cardinals. She had first seen the painting at its former home, the Tate Britain museum in London. It had struck her like lightning. For Maureen, this single image had explained the hundreds of years of character assassination that this daughter of the Pope had endured. She had been called every distasteful name imaginable, murderess and incestuous whore among them. Lucrezia Borgia had been punished by male medieval historians because she had had the audacity to sit on the sacred throne of Saint Peter and issue papal instructions during her father’s absences.
“Lucrezia was a driving force behind my book. Her story embodied the theme of the woman who was reviled and stripped of her true power in history,” Maureen explained to Sinclair.
Maureen’s research revealed that the devastating accusations of incest were devised by Lucrezia’s first husband, a violent lout who had been ruined after their marriage was annulled. He started the rumors that Lucrezia wanted an annulment because she was sexually involved with her own father and brother. These vicious lies endured for centuries, perpetuated by the enemies of the much-envied Borgia family.
“They’re bloodline, you know.”
“The Borgias?” Maureen was incredulous. “How?”
“Through the Sarah-Tamar line. Their ancestors were Cathars who escaped into Spain. They sought refuge at the monastery in Montserrat and eventually assimilated into Aragon, where they adopted the name Borgia, before immigrating to Italy. But their choice of location was not an accident, nor was their legendary ambition. Rodrigo Borgia was determined to sit on the throne, to restore Rome to those he believed were its rightful rulers.”
Maureen shook her head in amazement as Sinclair continued.
“The installation of his daughter on the throne was emblematic of his Cathar descent. Of course, women are equal to men in The Way, in all matters, including spiritual leadership. Cesare was making a statement, which would cause the downfall of his daughter. Sadly, history now remembers the Borgias only as evil and scheming.”
Maureen agreed. “Some writers have even gone so far as to call them the first family of organized crime. It just seems brutally unfair.”
“It is, not to mention totally inaccurate.”
“This bloodline information…” Maureen was still absorbing it all. “It certainly adds a new layer to history.”
“Feel a sequel coming on, my dear?” Sinclair joked.
“I feel about two decades of research coming on, at the very least. I’m fascinated. I can’t wait to see where this takes me.”
“Yes, but first I think it is time to look at a chapter in your own life.”
Maureen stiffened. She had begged him for this moment, insisted on it. It was the reason she had come to France in the first place. But now, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
“Are you all right?” Sinclair sounded sincerely worried.
She nodded. “I’m fine. It’s just that now that I’m here…I’m nervous, that’s all.”
Sinclair gestured to a chair and Maureen sat, gratefully. He opened a built-in filing cabinet with yet another key and extracted a folder, explaining to Maureen as he walked.
“I discovered this letter in my grandfather’s archives years ago. When I learned about your work and saw your photograph and the ring, alarm bells went off in my head. I knew of Paschal descendants here in France, but I also remembered that there was once an American named Paschal who was important. I couldn’t remember why, until I found this letter.”
Sinclair placed the folder gently in front of Maureen and opened it to reveal yellowed paper and faded ink. “Would you like me to leave you alone?”
Maureen looked up at him but saw only understanding and security in his face. “No. Please stay with me.”
Sinclair nodded, patting her hand gently, then sat down across the table from her, silent. Maureen picked up the folder and began to read.
“My dear Monsieur Gélis,” the letter began.
“Gélis?” Maureen asked. “I thought this was to your grandfather.”
Sinclair shook his head. “No, it was in my grandfather’s files, but it was written to a local man here from an old Cathar family called Gélis.”
Maureen thought briefly that she had heard the name before but didn’t spend much time on it. She was too concerned about the remaining elements of the letter.
Dear Monsieur Gélis,
Please forgive me, but I have no one else to turn to. I hear tell that you have great knowledge in matters of the spirit. That you are a true Christian man. I hope this is so. For many months I have been tormented by nightmares and visions of Our Lord on the cross. I have been visited by him and he has given me his pain.
But I do not write for myself. I write for my little daughter, my Maureen. She screams in the night and tells me of the same nightmares. She is little more than a baby. How can this be happening to her? How can I stop this before she feels the pain that I have felt?
I cannot stand to see my child like this. Her mother blames me; she threatens to take away my baby forever. Please help me. Please tell me what I can do to save my little girl.
With all my thanks,
Edouard Paschal
Maureen could not see through her tears as she replaced the letter and allowed herself to sob.
Sinclair offered to stay with Maureen, but she declined. She was shaken to her core by the letter, and needed to be alone. She briefly considered waking Peter, but decided against it. She needed to think about this first. And Peter’s recent slip about “promising her mother not to let the same thing happen” made her suspicious and uncomfortable. Peter had always been her anchor, the safe male figure in her life. She trusted him implicitly and knew he would never do anything that he didn’t feel was in the best interest of her safety. But what if Peter were operating on misinformation? Peter’s understanding of Maureen’s childhood, which he refused to speak of in any concrete terms, came solely from her mother.
Her mother. Maureen sat on the expansive bed, reclining slightly on the embroidered pillows. Bernadette Healy had been a hard and uncompromising woman, or that’s how Maureen remembered her. The only clues that she may have had a different disposition earlier in her life came from photographs; Maureen had some snapshots of her mother in Louisiana, holding the baby Maureen. Bernadette beamed at the camera, every inch the proud new mother.
How often had Maureen wondered what changed Bernadette, turned her from the young and hopeful mother in the photos to the cold disciplinarian of her memory? When they moved to Ireland, Maureen was raised predominantly by her aunt and uncle — Peter’s parents. Her mother deposited Maureen into the safety and anonymity of the remote farming community in the west of Ireland, while Bernadette herself returned to nursing in Galway city.
Maureen saw her mother rarely, when Bernadette would return to the farm out of a sense of duty or obligation. Those visits were strained as her mother became more and more of a stranger. Maureen embraced Peter’s family as her own and was absorbed into the healing warmth of their large and boisterous brood. Auntie Ailish, Peter’s mother, filled the maternal role. Maureen had developed her warmth and humor through the influence of Peter’s family. A tendency toward restraint, order, and caution came from her mother.
On a few occasions, usually following one of Bernadette’s disastrous and destructive visits, Ailish took her niece aside.
“You mustn’t judge your mother too harshly, Maureen,” she said in her patient way. “Bernadette loves you. Perhaps her downfall is that she loves you too much. But she has had a hard life, and it changed her. When you’re older, you will understand.”
Time and fate had removed any chance of Maureen ever growing to know or understand her mother better. Bernadette was struck with lymphoma when Maureen was
in her teens; she died quickly. Peter had been summoned to Bernadette’s deathbed and was the priest who administered last rites. He heard her final confession, and had carried the weight of his aunt’s shocking revelations on his shoulders every day of his life. But he would not discuss any of this with Maureen, citing the seal of the confessional.
And now there was a new piece of the puzzle. Maureen had to attempt an interpretation of the meaning of her father’s letter, a glimpse into the complex legacy he may have left for her. She would sleep on it tonight, then discuss it with Peter in the morning with a clearer head.
Carcassonne
June 25, 2005
DEREK WAINWRIGHT SLEPT HARD. The cocktail of prescription drugs and red wine had mixed with his exhaustion and stress to induce a state of oblivion.
Had he been more conscious, perhaps he would have been warned — by the footsteps, by the sound of his door opening, or by the whispered chanting of his attacker.
“Neca eos omnes. Neca eos omnes. Deus suos agnoset.”
Kill them all. Kill them all. God will know his own.
But by the time the red cord was tied around his neck, it was too late for Derek Wainwright. Unlike Roger-Bernard Gélis, he did not have the good fortune of being dead by the time the ritual began.
Château des Pommes Bleues
MAUREEN CRINGED at the knock on her door. She wasn’t up to Sinclair or Peter at the moment. She was relieved when the voice on the other side was female.
“Reenie? It’s me.”
Maureen opened the door to Tammy, who took one look at her and groaned. “You look wretched.”
“Gee, thanks. I feel wonderful.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not yet. I’m just processing some personal stuff.”
Tammy hesitated. Maureen snapped to attention as she realized she was seeing something completely new: Tamara Wisdom was nervous.
“What’s wrong, Tammy?”
Tammy sighed, running her hand through her long hair. “I hate to do this to you when you’re already emotional, but I really need to talk to you.”
Maureen gestured to the sitting area. “Come in and sit.”
Tammy shook her head. “No, I need you to come with me. I have to show you something.”
“Okay,” Maureen said simply, and followed Tammy through the labyrinthine corridors of the Château des Pommes Bleues. After all that had happened, she didn’t think there was much that could surprise her. She was wrong.
They entered the modern media room where Sinclair had first shown Maureen and Peter the maps of the local area compared to the constellations. Tammy pointed to a leather couch that was positioned before a large-screen television set. She picked up a remote control and sat next to Maureen. Taking a deep breath, she began her explanation.
“I want to show you some footage I’ve been working on for my next documentary. It’s about the bloodline. Now, I need you to hear me out on this because it’s very important, and it ultimately comes back to you and your part in this whole situation.
“As you know, the mystery of Jesus and Mary Magdalene has inspired a lot of secret societies and cloak-and-dagger groups. They whisper about the bloodline, perform super-secret rituals.”
Tammy hit the remote and brought the monitor to life. A slow slide show filled the screen, one image at a time. The first images were paintings of Mary Magdalene by the masters of Renaissance and Baroque art.
“Some of these groups are made up of fanatics, but some are truly good and spiritual people. Sinclair is one of the good guys, so you’re on safe ground here. Let me just be clear about that.” She paused for a moment, gathering her thoughts.
“I wanted to make a film that showed the scope of this whole concept — how far the idea of a sacred bloodline really reaches in the Western world and our history. The idea here is to show a wide range of who Jesus and Mary Magdalene’s descendants were — and are. From the famous to the infamous to the truly anonymous.”
Familiar portraits of historical and religious figures filled the screen as Tammy continued.
“Some of them may surprise you. Charlemagne. King Arthur. Robert the Bruce. Saint Francis of Assisi.”
“Wait a minute. Saint Francis of Assisi?”
Tammy nodded. “You bet. His mother, Lady Pica, was born in Tarascon. Pure Cathar stock of the Sarah-Tamar line, from the noble family Bourlemont. That’s how he got his name, you know. He was born Giovanni, but his parents called him Francesco because he reminded them so much of his mother’s French-Cathar side of the family. Have you ever been to Assisi?”
Maureen shook her head. Every new revelation was astonishing to her, overwhelming. She watched in fascination as images of the Italian village of Assisi, the home of the Franciscan movement, filled the screen.
“You need to see it; it’s one of the most magical places on earth. And the spirit of Saint Francis and his partner, Saint Clare, is still very much alive there. I believe they were reliving the Jesus and Mary Magdalene roles. But look closely at the artwork in the Basilica of St. Francis. The Italian master Giotto dedicated an entire chapel of art to Mary Magdalene. It contains a mural of Mary Magdalene arriving on the shores of France following the crucifixion. He was definitely making a statement. And there is a lot of Cathar sentiment in what we think of as Franciscan thought.”
She paused on Giotto’s portrait of Saint Francis receiving the stigmata from heaven.
“Francis is the only saint on record to manifest all five points of the stigmata. Why? The bloodline. He is a descendant of Jesus Christ. I think there is an argument that any authenticated stigmatist is probably from the bloodline. But what’s important about Francis is that he has all five. And no one else has ever had that.”
Maureen was counting, trying to keep up with Tammy. “Both palms, both feet — that’s four — and…?”
“The right side. Where the centurion pierced Jesus with the spear. But I have to correct you. The truest authentic stigmata does not occur on the palms, but on the wrists. Contrary to popular belief, Christ wasn’t nailed by his hands. He was nailed through the wrist bones. The hands aren’t strong enough to support the weight of the body.
“So while stigmata have been authenticated in the hands, like with Saint Padre Pio, it is wrist stigmata that really cause the Church to snap to attention. That’s what makes Francis here so important. Although artists like Giotto show the stigmata in the hands for dramatic effect, historical accounts tell us a different story. Francis had all five points, including the wrists.”
Tammy released the pause button to reveal the next image, the golden statue of Joan of Arc in Paris. The footage cut to another Joan image, the statue in Saunière’s garden that they had viewed two days prior.
“Remember when Peter asked me about this Joan statue? He said the world thinks of her as a symbol of conventional Catholicism. Well, here is why she is anything but that.”
Tammy clicked to a portrait of Joan of Arc holding her trademark “Jhesus-Maria” banner.
“Christians have long believed that Joan’s motto was a reference to Christ and his mother because her banner said “Jhesus-Maria.” But it wasn’t. It was a reference to Christ and Mary Magdalene, which is why she hyphenated the name, to show them joined together. Jesus and his wife, who were Joan’s ancestors.”
“But I thought she was a peasant. A…shepherdess.” Maureen groaned out loud, the realization striking as she said the word.
“Exactly. A shepherdess. And what about her name? ‘Of Arc’ indicates she had some association with this region, Arques, yet she was born in Domrémy. Joan of Arques — it’s a reference to her bloodline. And to her dangerous legacy. Berry told you about the prophecy, right? About The Expected One?”
Maureen nodded slowly. “I don’t think the world is ready for this. I don’t think I am ready for this.”
Tammy hit pause and turned her full attention to Maureen. “I need you to listen to the rest of Joan’s story, be
cause it’s important. How much do you know about her?”
“Probably what most people in the world know. She fought to restore the dauphin to the throne of France, she led battles against the English. She was burned at the stake as a witch although everyone knows that she wasn’t…”
“She was burned at the stake because she had visions.”
Maureen was weighing it all, trying to figure out where Tammy was going. She still wasn’t quite following, so Tammy explained with emphasis.
“Joan had visions, divine visions. And she was bloodline. What does that mean to you?”
Tammy didn’t wait for her answer. “Joan was The Expected One, and everybody knew it. She was going to fulfill the prophecy. She had visions that would have led her to the Magdalene Gospel. That’s why they had to silence her permanently.”
Maureen was flabbergasted. “But…was Joan’s birth date the same as mine?”
“Yes, but you won’t see it written that way historically. It’s usually shown as sometime in January. It was deliberately obscured in an effort to protect her true identity, both as a royal bastard and as the long-awaited Grail princess.”
“How do you know this? Is there documentation that backs it up?”
“Yes. But you have to stop thinking like an academic. You have to read between the lines because it’s all there. And don’t discount the local legends. You’re Irish, you know the power of the oral traditions and how they are handed down. The Cathars were no different than the Celts; in fact, there is a ton of evidence that those two cultures blended throughout France and Spain. They protected their traditions by not writing them down and not leaving evidence for their enemies. But the legend of Joan as The Expected One is prevalent here when you scratch the surface.”
“I thought the English forces executed Joan.”
“Wrong. The English arrested Joan, but it was the French clergy who prosecuted her and insisted on her death. Joan’s tormentor was a cleric called Cauchon. That’s a big joke in these parts, as ‘cochon’ means ‘pig’ in French. Well, it was that swine who extracted Joan’s confession and then twisted the evidence to force her martyrdom. Cauchon had to kill Joan before she was able to fulfill her role as The Expected One.”