The Expected One

by Kathleen McGowan

  “Why twenty-two?” Maureen asked, her interest piqued.

  “Twenty-two is a master number, and numerological elements are critical in alchemy. The master numbers are eleven, twenty-two, and thirty-three. But twenty-two is the pattern you will see most frequently in this area as it pertains to divine female energy. You’ll note that Mary Magdalene’s feast day on the church calendar…”

  “Is the twenty-second of July,” Peter and Maureen interrupted simultaneously.

  “Bingo. So to finally answer your question, maybe that’s why Mary Magdalene came here, because she knew of the natural power elements or understood something about the struggle between light and dark as it happens here. This region wasn’t unknown to the people of Palestine, you know. The Herod family owned retreats not all that far from here. There is even a tradition that says Mary Magdalene’s mother was originally of Languedoc stock. So maybe she was coming home in some way.”

  Tammy looked up at the crumbling tower of the Château Hautpol. “What I wouldn’t give to have been an immortal fly on the wall in that place.”

  The Languedoc

  June 23, 2005

  THEY DROPPED TAMMY OFF IN COUIZA, where she was meeting some friends for a late lunch. Maureen was disappointed that Tammy wouldn’t be joining them until later; she was nervous about approaching Sinclair’s home without a mutual friend to make things less awkward. And she could feel Peter’s tension. He was doing his best to hide it, but it was there in the tightening of his arms on the steering wheel. Perhaps staying at Sinclair’s was a mistake after all.

  But they had already committed to doing so, and to change their minds now would appear rude and insulting to their host. Maureen didn’t want to risk that. Sinclair was too important a piece of her puzzle.

  Peter eased the rental car from the road and through the enormous iron gates. Maureen noted as they passed that the gates were decorated with large gold fleurs-de-lis intertwined with vines of grapes — or, perhaps, blue apples. The winding driveway curved uphill, through the sprawling and sumptuous estate that was the Château des Pommes Bleues.

  They stopped in front of the château, both speechless for a moment at the sheer size and grandeur of the property, a perfectly restored castle built in the sixteenth century. As Peter and Maureen stepped out of the car, Sinclair’s imposing majordomo, the giant Roland, emerged from the front door. Two liveried servants scurried around the car to gather luggage and otherwise respond to Roland’s commands.

  “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Paschal, Abbé Healy. Bienvenue.” Roland smiled suddenly and the expression softened his face, causing both Maureen and Peter to release their collective indrawn breaths. “Welcome to Château des Pommes Bleues. Monsieur Sinclair is most delighted that you are here!”

  Maureen and Peter were left to wait in the lavish entry hall as Roland went in search of his master. It wasn’t a hardship — the room was filled with valuable art and priceless antiques, the equal of those in many a museum in France.

  Maureen stopped at a glass case that served as a focal point for the room, and Peter followed. A massive and ornate silver chalice occupied the case, and a human skull rested in a place of honor in the reliquary. The skull was bleached by time, yet a distinct split could be seen across the cranial bone. A lock of hair — faded, yet still carrying an obvious red pigment — was placed alongside the skull within the chalice.

  “The ancients believed that red hair was a source of great magic.” Bérenger Sinclair had arrived behind them. Maureen jumped a little at his unexpected voice, then turned to respond.

  “The ancients never had to attend public school in Louisiana.”

  Sinclair laughed, a rich Celtic sound, and reached out to run a finger playfully through Maureen’s hair. “Were there no boys at your school?”

  Maureen smiled, but returned her attention to the relic in the case quickly before he could see her blush. She read aloud from the placard within the case.

  “The skull of King Dagobert the Second.”

  “One of my more colorful ancestors,” Sinclair replied.

  Peter was fascinated and a little incredulous. “Saint Dagobert the Second? The last Merovingian king? You’re a descendant of his?”

  “Yes. And your grasp of history is as fine as your Latin. Well done, Father.”

  “Refresh my memory.” Maureen looked sheepish. “Sorry, but my real grasp of French history doesn’t start until Louis Quatorze. Who were the Merovingians again?”

  Peter answered, “An early line of kings in what is now France and Germany. Ruled from about the fifth to the eighth centuries. The line died out with the death of this Dagobert.”

  Maureen pointed to the jagged split in the skull. “Something tells me he didn’t die of natural causes.”

  Sinclair answered. “Not exactly. His godson shoved a lance into his brain through an eye socket while he slept.”

  “So much for family loyalty,” Maureen replied.

  “Sadly, he chose religious duty over family loyalty, a dilemma that has plagued many throughout history. Isn’t that right, Father Healy?”

  Peter frowned at the perceived implication. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Sinclair gestured grandly to a heraldic shield on the wall: a cross surrounded by roses over which a Latin inscription read

  ELIGE MAGISTRUM.

  “My family motto. Elige magistrum.”

  Maureen looked to Peter for clarification. Something was happening between the two men that was starting to make her nervous. “Which means?”

  “Choose a master,” Peter translated.

  Sinclair elaborated. “King Dagobert was murdered on orders from Rome, as the Pope was uncomfortable with his version of Christianity. Dagobert’s godson was challenged to choose a master, and he chose Rome, thus becoming an assassin for the Church.”

  “And why was Dagobert’s version of Christianity so disturbing?” Maureen questioned.

  “He believed that Mary Magdalene was a queen and the lawful wife of Jesus Christ, and that he was descended from them both, therefore giving him the divine right of kings in a way that out-matched all other earthly power. The Pope at the time found it terribly threatening for a king to believe such a thing.”

  Maureen cringed and made an attempt at keeping the discussion light. She nudged Peter. “Promise you won’t shove any lances in my eye socket while I sleep?”

  Peter gave her a sidelong glance. “I’m afraid I can’t make any promises. Elige magistrum and all that.”

  Maureen glared at him in mock horror and returned to studying the heavy silver reliquary, which was decorated with an elaborate fleur-de-lis pattern.

  “For someone who isn’t French, you’re very partial to that symbol.”

  “The fleur-de-lis? Of course. Don’t forget that the Scots and the French have been allied for hundreds of years. But my reason for using it is different. It’s the symbol of…”

  Peter finished his sentence. “The trinity.”

  Sinclair smiled at them. “Yes, yes, it is. But I wonder, Father Healy, if it is the symbol of your trinity…or of mine?”

  Before Maureen or Peter could ask for an explanation, Roland entered the room and addressed Sinclair rapidly in a language that resembled French combined with more Mediterranean tones. Sinclair turned to his guests.

  “Roland will show you to your rooms so you may rest and refresh yourselves before dinner.”

  He bowed elaborately, with a quick wink at Maureen, and swept out of the room.

  Maureen entered the bedroom and her jaw dropped in awe. The suite was magnificent. As enormous, canopied four-poster bed, draped in red velvet hangings embroidered with the ubiquitous golden fleurs-de-lis, dominated the space. The rest of the furniture was obviously antique, all of it gilded.

  A portrait titled Mary Magdalene in the Desert, by the Spanish master Ribera, covered one wall of the room. Mary Magdalene’s eyes lifted up toward the heavens. Heavy Baccarat crystal vases filled with red roses and
white lilies were scattered throughout the room, reminiscent of the flower arrangements Sinclair had sent to Maureen’s home in Los Angeles.

  “A girl could get used to this,” she said to herself, as the servants knocked on the door and began to unpack her bag.

  Peter’s room was smaller than Maureen’s, yet still ornate and fit for royalty. His own suitcase had not arrived yet, but he had his carry-on, which was sufficient for his immediate purposes. He removed his leather-bound Bible and crystal rosary beads from the black bag.

  Peter clutched the beads and dropped onto the bed. He was tired — worn-out from the journey and exhausted by the weighty responsibility he felt for Maureen’s welfare, physically and spiritually. Now he was in uncharted territory, and it made him nervous. He didn’t trust Sinclair. Worse, he didn’t trust his cousin’s reaction to Sinclair. The man’s money and physical appearance obviously created a mystique that held an attraction for women.

  At least he knew that Maureen wasn’t someone to be swept away easily. In fact, Peter knew of very few relationships she had ever had with men. Maureen’s perspective on romance had been damaged by her mother’s hatred of her father. That their toxic marriage had ended in tragedy was Maureen’s reason for staying away from anything that resembled a relationship.

  Still, she was female and she was human. And she was very vulnerable where her visions were concerned. Peter intended to make it his business to see that Sinclair did not use Maureen’s vulnerability to manipulate her. He wasn’t sure how much Sinclair knew yet — or how he knew it — but he was determined to find out as soon as possible.

  Peter closed his eyes and began to pray for guidance, but his silent prayers were interrupted by an insistent humming sound. He tried to ignore the vibration at first but gave in to it finally. Crossing the room to where his traveling bag rested, Peter reached inside and answered the cell phone.

  Thankfully, Peter’s room was just down the hallway from Maureen’s, otherwise they might have never found each other in the vast Sinclair mansion. Maureen was entranced with the house, absorbing every detail of art and architecture as they passed from one wing to the next.

  They were on their way to investigate the exterior of the château together as it would be several hours until dinner. Both were too fascinated by their surroundings to leave them unexplored. They entered a broad hallway that was illuminated with natural light from a leaded crystal window. An enormous and unusual mural depicting a somewhat abstract crucifixion scene adorned the length of the hall.

  Maureen stopped to admire the work. Beside the crucified Christ, a woman in a red veil held up three fingers as a tear slid down her face. She stood beside a body of water — a river? — from which three small fish, one red and two blue, leaped into the air. Both the pattern of the three fish and the woman’s raised finger echoed the fleur-de-lis pattern in an abstract way.

  There were countless details in the elaborate and obviously modern work of art. Maureen was sure they were all symbolic, but it would take hours to view every one of them — and probably years to understand them.

  Peter stood back to view the crucifixion scene, which was beautiful in its simplicity. The sky above the cross was darkened by what appeared to be a black sun, and a bolt of lightning ripped through the sky.

  “It resembles Picasso’s style, doesn’t it?” Peter said.

  Their host appeared at the end of the hallway. “It’s by Jean Cocteau, France’s most prolific artist and one of my personal heroes. He painted it here while a guest of my grandfather.”

  Maureen was dumbfounded. “Cocteau stayed here? Wow. This house must be a national treasure for France. All of the artwork is phenomenal. The painting in my room…”

  “The Ribera? It’s my personal favorite Magdalene portrait. It captures her beauty and divine grace more than any other. Exquisite.”

  Peter was incredulous. “But you can’t be saying it’s an original. I’ve seen it in the Prado.”

  “Oh, but it is original. Ribera painted it at the request of the king of Aragon. He painted two, actually. And you’re quite right, the smaller of them is in the Prado. The Spanish king gave this to another of my ancestors, a member of the Stuart family, as a peace offering. As you will see, fine art has a strong association with Our Lady. I will show you further examples of this over dinner later. But if you don’t mind my asking, where are you going now?”

  Maureen answered him. “We were just going to take a walk before dinner. I saw some ruins up on the hill as we drove in and wanted to take a closer look.”

  “Yes, of course. But I would be most honored to act as your tour guide. If that is acceptable with Father Healy, of course?”

  “Of course.” Peter smiled, but Maureen noticed the tightness at the edges of his mouth as Sinclair took her arm.

  Rome

  June 23, 2005

  THE SUN SHONE MORE BRIGHTLY in Rome than anywhere else in the world, or at least that was how Bishop Magnus O’Connor felt as he strode across the hallowed stones of St. Peter’s Basilica. He all but swooned with the honor of having access to the private chapel.

  As he entered the hallowed ground, he paused before the marble statue of Peter holding the keys to the church and kissed the saint’s bare feet. Then he waddled to the front of the church, settling into the first pew. He gave thanks to his Lord for bringing him to this holy place. He prayed for himself, he prayed for his bishopric, and he prayed for the future of Holy Mother Church.

  When he had completed his devotions, Magnus O’Connor entered the office of Tomas Cardinal DeCaro carrying the red file folders that had been his ticket to the Vatican.

  “They’re all here, Your Grace.”

  The Cardinal thanked him. If O’Connor had expected an invitation to join the Cardinal in any prolonged discussion, he was to be highly disappointed. Cardinal DeCaro excused him with a curt nod of his head, and not another word.

  DeCaro was anxious to see the contents of the folders, but he preferred to do so for the first time without an audience.

  He opened the first of the file folders, all of which were labeled in bold black: EDOUARD PAUL PASCHAL.

  …I have not written yet about the Great Mother, the Great Mary. I have waited this long for I have often wondered if I had the words that would do justice to her goodness, her wisdom, and her strength. In the life of every woman, there will always be the influence and teachings of one woman who stands supreme. For me this could only be the Great Mary, the mother of Easa.

  My own mother died when I was very small. I do not remember her. And while Martha always cared for me and attended to my worldly needs as a sister, it was Easa’s mother who provided my spiritual instruction. She nurtured my soul and taught me the many lessons of compassion and forgiveness. She showed me what it was to be a queen and schooled me in the behaviors appropriate to a woman of our charted destiny.

  When the time came for me to step into the red veil and become a true Mary, I was prepared. Because of her, and all that she gave me.

  The Great Mary was a model of obedience, but hers was an obedience only to the Lord. She heard the messages of God with utter clarity. Her son had this same ability, and it is why they were set apart from others who had also come from noble birth. Yes, Easa was a child of the Lion, the heir to the throne of David, and his mother descended from the great priestly caste of Aaron. She was born a queen and Easa a king. But it was not mere blood that set them apart from all others; it was their spirit and the strength of their faith in God’s message to us.

  Had I done nothing but walk in her shadow for all of my days, I would have been blessed to do so.

  The Great Mary was the first woman in memory to be so gifted with clear knowledge of the divine. This was a challenge to the high priests, who did not know how to accept a woman of such power. But nor could they condemn her. The Great Mary had a blood lineage that was untainted, and her heart and spirit were beyond reproach. Her unblemished reputation was known across many lands.


  Men of power feared her, for they could not control her. She answered only to God.

  THE ARQUES GOSPEL OF MARY MAGDALENE,

  THE BOOK OF DISCIPLES

  Chapter Eight

  Château des Pommes Bleues

  June 23, 2005

  Sinclair lead Maureen and Peter out on a cobbled path that led away from the vast house. The rugged foothills of rich red rock surrounded them, crowned by the ruins of a craggy castle on a nearby hill.

  Maureen was enthralled by the breathtaking scenery. “This place is stunning. It has such a mystical feel to it.”

  “We’re in the heart of Cathar country. This entire region was once dominated by the Cathars. The Pure Ones.”

  “How did they get that title?”

  “Their teachings came in a pure, unbroken line from Jesus Christ. Through Mary Magdalene. She was the founder of Catharism.”

  Peter looked wildly skeptical, but it was Maureen who voiced the doubt. “Why have I never read that anywhere?”

  Bérenger Sinclair just laughed, not the least bit concerned about whether or not they found him credible. He was a man so comfortable with his beliefs and so confident in himself that the opinions of others held no validity for him.

  “No, and you won’t read it either. The real history of the Cathars isn’t in any history books, and you can’t research it with any authenticity anywhere but here. The truth of the Cathar people lies in the red rocks of the Languedoc and nowhere else.”

  “I’d love to read about them,” Maureen said. “Can you recommend any books that you feel are authentic?”

  Sinclair shrugged and shook his head. “Very few, and virtually none that I find credible have been translated into English. The majority of books on Cathar history are based on confessions extracted during torture. Virtually all medieval accounts of the Cathar people were written by their enemies. How accurate do you think those are? Maureen, I would expect you to understand that principle based on your own re-examining of history. No authentic Cathar practice has ever been committed to writing. Their traditions have been passed down by families in this area for two thousand years, but they are fiercely protected oral traditions.”