“What is this? Tell us what we’re seeing, Letty,” whispered Gunning.
When at last she could scrabble a few words together, she spoke quietly: “It’s a sanctuary. I think we’re in a sanctuary.” She flashed her torch over the ceiling and walls, avoiding for the moment the central awesome display. “Wood-lined, you see, even the floor. A large space…perhaps fifteen feet by ten. I think it’s far earlier than the monks of Fontigny…I think it goes back to the very earliest days of all. It’s surely a Celtic shrine. Look! Do you see? The row of skulls in the niche? Celts worshipped the head, and enemies defeated in battle would be decapitated and their heads used as triumphal ornaments. These have been set up in a religious ritual, I’d say.”
“And that monster?” asked d’Aubec, pointing.
The light danced off the surface of a huge and intricately wrought bronze vessel occupying the centre of the space. It stood five feet high and was terrifying rather than beautiful. Its handles were grinning heads, their tongues poking out in derision, and the riot of animals which encircled it seemed for a second, in the unsteady light of Letty’s torch, to move in a wild ritual dance with the human figures interwoven with them.
Letty moved forward and gingerly touched the cauldron with her fingertips. Striving for, but not quite achieving, the unemotional and schoolmasterly tone of the guide who’d shown her around the tomb of Tutankhamen, she carried on with her commentary: “Greek workmanship? But how did it get here? Hauled over the Alps? By sea and up the Rhône Valley? Perhaps in pieces and then reassembled when it reached its destination?” The enquiring fingers followed the beam of her torch, seeking seams in the metalwork. “This is too big to have been a crater for mixing wine,” she said. “I would say it’s a sacrificial vessel. A frightening thing when you look at it.” The grinning heads stared back at the intruders with sneering menace. Letty shuddered at the thought of the victims who had leant over it to have their throats cut in ritual sacrifice by the priests.
“But look! Over there. There’s something beyond it.”
They moved forward, illuminating a huddled dark mass.
“A shrine, but also a burial chamber,” murmured Gunning.
They gazed in rapt attention, taking in the details of the body lying on its bier. Flesh long rotted away had left behind skull and skeleton, the bones still covered in places by the remains of a dark fabric. At the shoulder gleamed a brooch shaped like the new moon. But it was the skull which drew their eyes. Yellowed with age but intact and gently rounded, it evoked none of the dread which the time-honoured image traditionally arouses in the onlooker. The starkness of the bony outline was softened and made human by a fall of golden hair which gleamed still as Letty played the torch over it.
At the sight both men made the sign of the cross.
“Could it be…? Surely not…But who, then?” breathed Gunning.
“You’d better tell us, Letty, who you’ve found.”
“It’s not Mary,” she said quietly, answering the question they were both avoiding. “This lady is much, much older. She’s a Celt. Look at the neck.”
About the neck lay a golden torque, the splendour of which drew a gasp from everyone as the light revealed it. Letty pointed a quivering finger. “Look! It’s exquisite! Solid gold and of an artistry that takes the breath away. So simple, so elegant. So Celtic. And do you see the terminals?” Spanning the angle between the golden globe at either end of the collar and the main arc of the torque, and linked to it by the finest filigree work, were rearing golden horses, no more than an inch long.
The woman’s arms were folded over her breast. “A princess or priestess, probably both,” said Letty. “And I don’t judge solely by the wealth of her ornament—the position of the arms—do you see? And here’s a puzzle—I’ve seen that in Egypt. It’s the traditional pose for royal mummies. Celtic, Egyptian, Greek,” she murmured, “so many influences.” And she concluded: “This was a very important lady.”
“Our Lady of Ancient Days,” said d’Aubec. He made to stretch out an arm in some sort of homage but Letty held him back with a whispered “Touch nothing!
“And this,” said Letty, pointing to a pile of smaller bones below the feet from which still dangled two ragged slippers, “must have been her dog…her hunting dog, perhaps.”
In death the lady had been provided with all she had needed in life for, stacked against the wall were Greek wine jugs, Etruscan copper beakers, silver platters, an intricately worked bronze mirror, and the crumbling remains of a four-wheeled chariot, distinguishable by its gilded hubs and spokes. Letty carefully picked up an Attic black-figure drinking cup. “I don’t know much about Greek pottery but I’d say this might give an expert a date for her. And it would be earlier than…oh…500 B.C. This is all very amazing and wonderful, but, Edmond, do you suppose that’s what we’ve been led to discover?” she finished in awed tones, lighting a niche in the far wall of the cave.
Again the beams reflected off metal and d’Aubec breathed, “Epona!”
She gleamed darkly, tarnished by the centuries, staring through them as she sat astride her silver horse; at the feet of the horse there trotted a silver hound. The Horse Goddess. The earliest treasure of Fontigny. A secret kept through the ages. This sacred place had been guarded through the centuries. Letty felt herself an interloper.
“This is Our Lady,” she said. “Vera Dea! The true goddess. That’s what the manuscript meant. The monks left the sacred valuables belonging to the Virgin Mary—the ones from the abbey—here in the one safe place they knew of—in the proximity and care of Epona. And her priestess, the embodiment of the goddess.”
“The monks—some of them were local boys with country memories and country beliefs—they knew she was here and would look after the treasure,” said d’Aubec. “And she did. My ancestors colluded. They shared the secret. For a further two centuries, until Laval broke into her cave.”
A sudden rush of ancient fear and superstitious dread caught hold of Letty’s heart and got the better of her professional absorption. They were intruding in this quiet, holy place, and she understood perfectly why the monks had paused to build up a partition before secreting their hoard on the other side. “Let’s leave her alone again. We have penetrated deeper, defiled more surely than Laval,” she said.
The two men did not object. It occurred to her that each of them had strong reason to withdraw and make good the damage they’d done. Even in their awe and astonishment, Letty was aware that both had kept a silence, each hoping that the other had failed to notice the plainest and yet the most significant object in the chamber. She wondered if it would be Gunning or Edmond—or neither—who would speak of it to her.
After a last swift look over her shoulder at the emotionless features of the goddess, Letty scrambled back through the hole.
She emerged, blinking, into the bright sunshine of the courtyard, glad of d’Aubec’s steadying hand, devastated by their violation of that ancient place. But, outside, a further shock was waiting. It was as if a slip in time while they were inside had changed the stableyard into a different place. They had left it empty, but now it was alive with cars and well-dressed, chattering strangers.
There was the family Mercedes with Constantine standing in deferential formality at the door. A Citroën was parked askew with its doors open, and next to it a large chauffeur-driven Packard laden with luggage. A distinguished-looking Frenchman who must certainly be Uncle Auguste was on the far side of the courtyard escorting the countess into the château. They disappeared inside. A small red open sports car had just disgorged a young man and woman. Bookends, Letty thought; both looked very like d’Aubec. His cousins. The girl came in for Letty’s close attention. She was tall and slender and dressed, improbably, in riding clothes. Tight white jodhpurs, black jacket, shiny black boots, and, around her throat, an elegant silk scarf. A marcel wave swirled expensively around her neat dark head. Letty, dishevelled and tripping over the drooping hem of her borrowed trousers, knoc
ked a cloud of dust from her hair and stared in hatred.
The young man, whose name she thought was François, caught sight of them, looked briefly, then turned away and busied himself discreetly with the boot of the car. But the girl gave a shout of laughter and came towards them. D’Aubec’s arm went protectively around Letty’s shoulder.
“Edmond! Darling!” She laughed a tinkling laugh. “What’s this? Girl grooms now? Whatever next? Can’t say I think much of the uniform, though…And all the hay burned away, I see, so nowhere for you to have a nice roll!” Her fluting laughter echoed round the courtyard.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Letty easily. “Who needs hay? So many cosy holes and corners to be found in a stable. If one is eager to seek them out.”
“Quite a squeeze for three, though,” drawled Gunning provocatively, stepping forward from the shadows and dusting off his knees. He flung an arm around Letty’s other shoulder and eyed Gabrielle lasciviously. “Still—there’s always room for one more on top—as we say on the London omnibus.”
Gabrielle gasped and took a step back.
“Edmond, old fruit,” Gunning pushed on, “aren’t you going to introduce us to this charming amazone?”
Edmond’s voice, when it came, was in a higher register than his usual light baritone. “Gabrielle, you misunderstand. I would like to introduce to you the English lady I was telling you of. The lady…” He paused to flash a placatory grin at Letty. “The lady I would like you to greet as my future wife. Miss Laetitia Talbot of London. Laetitia, my dear, this is my cousin Gabrielle.”
Frosty nods and murmured greetings were exchanged.
“And may I also present Laetitia’s cousin, the Reverend William Gunning? But—David? Where is David?” Edmond asked looking around. “I should explain, my dear, that Gabrielle’s engagement was announced this weekend—with my blessing—to a most unsuitable ruffian! A French air force officer, a pilot of the worst suicidal kind but great fun. I might have looked for him to fly to my rescue,” he added with a lift of the eyebrow.
Gabrielle’s recovery had been instant. “He was recalled to Paris. I’m sure he will be devastated to have missed this encounter. David has a strange appreciation of the English sense of humour,” she added sweetly. “I was about to take my Sunday morning ride when the news of your predicament broke and we dropped everything and hurried over. Perhaps, as you are clearly firing on all cylinders, Edmond, and need neither my sympathy nor my succour, I might steal a ride on Carnaval…as I’m dressed for it.”
Letty glowered.
“I would guess he’d be delighted,” said d’Aubec politely, “after the night he’s had, to stretch his legs. You’ll find him a lively ride, my dear. Just exactly what you like. And now, if you’ll all excuse me, I have some things to clear up here in the stables. Boring matters like tidying up after the burglars. I’ll get a couple of stout chaps to make good the damage done to the walls.” He gave a whistle and rapped out instructions to the men who were swiftly in attendance. “And now I’d better go and show my wounds to Maman and Uncle Auguste. Laetitia, why don’t you go and change? I’m sure your things will have arrived by now. And why not show William the library? I’ll join you there as soon as I can.”
“Golly!” said Letty, watching as their host strode off. “I seem to have acquired a fiancé and a blood relative in less time than it takes to tell! Cousin!” she said, eyeing Gunning. “Where does he get that from?”
“Could have been worse,” grunted Gunning. “He could have said ‘grandfather.’”
“So that’s it! The standard to which every Frenchman will rally!” said Gunning when they met in the library. “Spectacular! Quite spectacular!”
“Not sure I follow,” said Letty doubtfully. “And I do hope you’re not about to make another lecherous comment about my cousin-in-law-to-be. Really, William! Edmond was frightfully embarrassed. You must understand, if you are to take your place in society again, that the language and manners of the Mill Road Shelter are simply not appropriate.”
“Are you telling me you didn’t notice it?” he persisted. “You and your archaeologist’s eye! Was that eye so dazzled by the gold, the silver, the bronze, and the bones that it didn’t take in a simple piece of earthenware? The urn standing in a position of honour at the priestess’s right side? Not, I think, contemporary with the burial. A later addition, most probably. Placed there perhaps five hundred years after the original burial, but centuries before the abbey treasures fetched up there for safekeeping, I’d guess. It looked quite out of place amongst all those fancy Greek pots and pieces of Etruscan ware.”
Laetitia turned on him a look of pure indulgent affection. “First century A.D. pottery style? Eighteen inches tall by about twelve inches across, Greek form, perhaps, but undecorated? The original of the one we see today in the fresco in the church of Sainte-Madeleine? The urn that stands, significantly, I have to believe, on the soil of Burgundy, at the goddess’s right hand? That urn?”
CHAPTER 41
The answers to all this lie in a very ancient papyrus.” Gunning’s voice was urgent. “It was discovered at Akhmin, in Egypt. Goodness knows how it got to Germany, but it fetched up in the Berlin Museum in 1896. My Berlin friend—Klaus, his name is Klaus—was helping to prepare a translation of the Coptic script before the war. The contents were stunning! They had got as far as actually publishing some copies. Unfortunately the stock was caught up in a wartime accident—the cellar the books were stored in was flooded, and all lost. And then the war broke out and everyone had other things on their minds.”
“Stunning?” Letty prompted.
“Oh, yes. Klaus had retained a copy and allowed me to study it. World-shaking?…Yes, I think I’d say that. The text was short—I learned every word. It was a Gospel. A Gospel written by Mary Magdalene, Christ’s apostle, herself. Early. Very early. Possibly second century, which makes it one of the founding texts of Christianity. Suppressed by the early Church because its contents were explosive.”
Gunning was speaking swiftly, listening out for the sound of d’Aubec’s feet in the corridor.
“It reveals her to be, as I mentioned before, the foremost of the apostles. I wonder if d’Aubec and his crew have any knowledge of this? You know, it’s just possible they don’t…She’s shown to be the person closest to Christ, his chosen one. She knew more of his teachings than any of the male disciples. A question of intelligence, intellect…perception. It’s clear that her understanding went much deeper than that of Peter and the rest. She had access to sacred knowledge their minds could not encompass.”
“Not an easy situation, in a time even more oppressively male-dominated than our own?” Letty guessed.
“No. Having listened to Mary delivering a delicate, cerebral, esoteric understanding of Christ’s teaching and hearing her answers to such questions as: ‘What is Matter? What is Sin? Lord, do we perceive you through our soul or through our spirit?’ the disciples’ response is the equivalent of ‘Eh? What was that again?’ Andrew turns to the other disciples and says, ‘Will someone explain to me what this woman’s been telling us? It’s my opinion that the Teacher wouldn’t speak like this. These ideas are unlike any we’ve heard before.’ And angrily Peter joins in the denunciation: ‘How can it be that the Teacher confided to a woman secrets of which we ourselves are ignorant? Are we expected to change our ways, our traditions, and listen to her? Did He really choose her and prefer her to us?’”
He waited for Letty to respond but she was thinking deeply, much disturbed by what she heard. Finally, “Oh, I’m sorry, William. I’m afraid I’m with Andrew on this—‘these ideas are unlike any I’ve heard before,’” she said.
“You won’t be surprised to hear that Mary’s response was to burst into tears.”
Letty rallied. “That would be tears of frustration and annoyance, I’d guess! We’ve all done that in the face of male thick-headedness! It’s not a sign of weakness but despair.”
“But she did find support
. Levi spoke up for her. ‘Peter, you’ve always been hot-tempered and now we see you rejecting a woman just as our enemies do. Yet if the Teacher considered her worthy, who are you to deny her? Surely the Teacher knew her very well, for he loved her more than us.’”
“Well, good for Levi. But what am I to make of all this? What is the meaning in all this, William?”
“No less than a passing on to humanity of Christ’s central message, his spiritual teaching.” He paused, silenced by the gravity of his conclusion. “Oh, it would take me a day to explain all this…”
A pair of lightly questioning, intelligent grey eyes fixed him until he blushed.
“I’m sorry, Letty! Echoes of Andrew there! The Gospel reveals a path of self-knowledge—gnosis—God in oneself.” He tapped his chest. “We—every man and woman—are the incarnation of God, and those of us who have ears to hear, as Mary constantly says—‘Let them hear!’”
“William, if I can lay hands on a translation of this manuscript I’m prepared to study it closely and write an appreciation for the Women’s Suffrage Weekly, but I can’t see what it has to do with d’Aubec and his schemes, even if the cremated remains of the saint may well be secreted in an earthenware pot on his property.”
“Have you forgotten the fever that went around the world following the discovery of the tomb of a very minor Egyptian king? One day his name was unknown and unpronounceable, the next the word ‘Tut’ was on everyone’s lips—even reduced to an affectionate nickname. Imagine the effects, worldwide, of a well-directed campaign by newspapers, radio, and film photography to broadcast this local discovery if d’Aubec cared to launch it! And I don’t flatter this man with any esoteric sensitivity to a Christian icon. I have no idea what his inner spirituality consists of, but I’m prepared to guess at his readiness to use—and ruthlessly use—the exoteric power of what we saw this morning. With devastating consequences.”
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