Nicholas was not necessarily violent; he was just irrepressible and unreasonable and seemed to have an unnatural aversion to the teachings of the Church even though he declared openly that he believed in Jesus, the Christ. He rarely raised his voice and he never struck or abused his brother other than tying him to various objects such as his bed. The grounds custodian found him tied to the fence once and again to one of the olive trees. Gregory did not seem to mind too terribly much, but was rather more aggravated than anything else about missing the services about which he was so very curious. Barry had been trying to construct some way of presenting his findings to Mark Ramsay without sounding like he was merely complaining about the brothers’ eccentricities. It was a serious matter and one that had to be attended to very soon.
“Oui`.” Lavon’s golden eyes were shining with excitement. “All of that and much, much more.”
“But what authentication can you present for such sources? I have seen some very strange things on the web, Brother.” Barry yawned. “Why just the other day, I was browsing through the news clips and clicked on the wrong thing and before I knew it, I was on a most perverse journey. This has happened to me before. It took me almost an hour to get out of the loop.”
“An hour?” Lavon raised one golden eyebrow. “It should not have taken so long, Brother. You should practice your proficiency in clicking the mouse. Why, it would take only a matter of seconds to activate the pop-up blocker I installed on your terminal. These criminals are getting very clever. Perhaps I should look into your programming?”
“No! Uh, no, that won’t be necessary.” Barry cleared his throat and his face darkened a bit. “Well, suffice it to say, that I simply could not believe my eyes. I could not click fast enough… I was… stunned into inactivity.”
“Ahh. I see.” Lavon nodded. “It happens. But this is well-documented… all of it. I have cross checked and verified every source. They are legitimate sites, prepared by professionals in the fields of genealogy, history and theology. The farther I went, the more I found… connections. More and more connections. Things that hitherto did not make sense began to click into place. Pardon the pun.”
Lavon picked up the hard copies from the Seneschal's desk and shuffled them in his hands nervously.
“Look at this chart I have constructed.” He shoved a very complicated, but beautifully laid out genealogical tree, listing many very familiar names. “All of the French Knights connected with the Order have common roots in the Languedoc area of France with the exception of Guy de Lyons. Guy was the only one without roots in the formerly Cathar regions in the south of France. Even Louis Champlain hailed from there originally. It is strange that he never mentioned this to anyone. He is always telling stories.”
“Yes, well.” Barry frowned at the paper. “You believe that this has something to do with what happened to our Brother?”
“Yes! Yes! Oui`! It would seem that almost all of the Knights of the Council who lived for any length of time had connections with either the Cathars or were directly linked in some way to Mark Andrew Ramsay. That is to say, Luke Matthew Ramsay and Lucio Dambretti were closely connected with Mark Ramsay throughout their careers. Luke Matthew by birth of course and Lucio through his apprenticeship and association with Mark Andrew since the fall of Jerusalem. Of course, he also had connections through Edgard d’Brouchart who apparently saved him when he was but a baby. Guy had no such connections.”
“Some of us are not so very ancient, but even Christopher Stewart has connections with the so-called Holy Blood Line of Christ through his association, however brief it may have been, when he was a member of the so-called Gothic movement in America. He is associated with the secret Order of the Teutonic Knights and he is also connected with Mark Ramsay.”
“That is all very interesting, Brother.” Barry yawned again and picked up his coffee. “But that would not explain me. I am very ancient.” He smiled at Lavon over the rim of the cup. “And this morning I am feeling it!”
“No, look!” Lavon shuffled through the paper again. “I prepared a separate chart just for you.”
Lavon shoved a paper with a smaller outline across the desk toward the Englishman.
Barry looked down at the paper slowly. It was brief, but definitive. His grandfather had immigrated to England from France just after the Cathars had been massacred by the Church. He had changed his name from Jean Dubois to John of Effingham. John of Effingham? Lavon knew more about him than he knew himself. Barry knew that his father’s name had been Gerald and his mother’s name had been Mary. Mary and Gerald. That was it. They had lived in Sussex. They had not been extremely poor, but they had worked very hard in the markets to feed and clothe their two sons. His father had been a butcher and his mother had worked for a milliner, making fine hats for wealthy ladies. That was it! Barry frowned at the paper.
“Where did you get this?” he asked after a moment.
“It was not easy.” Lavon smiled at him. “Your grandfather was a Cathar fleeing for his life. I don’t think he was a Parfait, a perfecti, but he was from the Languedoc at precisely the right point on the historical timeline. Frenchmen, especially the common people, rarely migrated from France to England for no apparent reason. The Cathars were not all killed. It is usually impossible to kill so many as to wipe out an entire race of people, Brother. There are always survivors though they may become assimilated by other races, other groups or religions… whatever the case may be. You know that. They scatter, disappear through the cracks like so many mice in the cellar.” Lavon’s smile widened. “We are truly Brothers!”
Barry sat looking at the French Knight with a blank stare on his face. He had always found the French a bit annoying with their arrogance and air of superiority. Things were beginning to click into place for Barry as well. No wonder the French thought themselves superior! Most of them didn’t even know why they were supposed to be superior in the first place. And now to learn that he was not English, not Angle, not Saxon, but French! It was too much. He blinked and realized that Lavon was still speaking rapidly to him.
“Furthermore, I have learned that there was a very secret part of the Merovingian/Cathar religion that resembled the Holy Communion, but the communion cup was not filled with wine, Brother. It was filled with the blood of Christ! The Sangreal! The Holy Grail! The real thing. It was their custom to initiate new members into their society by having them partake of the Holy Blood literally in a mystical ceremony that would transform any one into a member of the Holy Family by partaking of the Blood of Christ. The blood of Christ’s descendents. The Merovingians claimed to be descendents of Jesus Christ and his wife, Mary Magdalene!”
“That is blasphemy! Heresy!” Barry stood up, spilling the remains of his coffee across his desk.
“Yes! And that is why the Church destroyed them,” Lavon continued. “They had possession of certain proofs that would show that Christ did not die on the cross, but was taken down alive and transported to France where He lived to a ripe old age with His wife and children. What do you think that would do to the Church? They had to destroy them, Brother! It did not matter if their claims were true or not. Even the hint of such a thing could have spelt disaster for the Holy Roman Church. But they were overlooking something and that was that it is possible that He did die on the Cross in a physical sense and was then raised up again in another sense. As we are raised up after three days from our wounds, He, too, was surely raised up. There is nothing to detract from the resurrection in their claims. Whether or not he went to live in France after the resurrection and ascension is immaterial. For who of us can say what the Son of God may or may not do? Do you not see it, Brother?”
“I see.” Barry nodded and then sat back down. This had the distinctly familiar ring that he did not like. He had heard Gregory Sinclair-Ramsay saying something very similar. It had been one of the things that had prompted him to bring the matter before the Grand Master at first opportunity. “Do you believe it, Lavon?”
�
�It is very convincing, but I do not have possession of the proofs they claimed to have. They have been lost in history. It is also possible that these proofs were taken from the Languedoc by the Templars and hidden somewhere else. The Cathars were apparently protectors of the Holy Blood, the Sangreal. The Sangreal was possessed by the Merovingians who ruled in this area in ancient times. The Cathars are closely connected with these Royal bloodlines of the Merovingians. The Merovingians are alternately thought to have been either direct descendents of Christ or descendents of the god/kings of Atlantis. It is also believed that they are one and the same. That Jesus Christ, Noah, Adam…” Lavon shook his head in frustration “… all the major figures of the Judeo-Christian beliefs were actually Atlanteans. The Shepherds of Mankind.”
“What?!” Barry was up again.
“I am only telling you what I have learned. There is much more where this came from,” Lavon said. “We are not qualified to verify or deny the claims of the Cathars. Much of their works, doctrines and writings was lost during the Albigensian Crusade. We are not concerned with whether or not this is heresy or blasphemy, but simply researching the possibility of some logical explanation for Guy de Lyons’ death. We have been looking for a connection or a disconnection as the case may be and so far, this is what I have found.” Lavon leaned back in his chair and crossed his long legs.
“Since our illustrious Grand Master has been involved in this from the very beginning, then we must assume that he knows of this. We can also safely assume that Mark Ramsay may know about it as well since he has, apparently, been the caretaker of the Templar treasures for a very long time.”
“Oui`!” Lavon agreed. “Now the question is: Do we present our findings to them?”
“Of course.” Barry nodded. He felt more weary than before. “I hardly think that they will give much credence to them.” Barry was kidding himself… again.
“We all have learned many things that are not generally known in the world today, Brother. How many people beyond the walls of this Villa know, for instance, that there is an actual otherworld or underworld existing between the planes of reality? How many people have journeyed to the Abyss and lived to tell about it? How many people have hobnobbed with elves? Lived in castles and fought real dragons?”
Barry continued to stare at the younger man in wonder. Yes, indeed how many? And how many living men were there in the world who had partaken of the Holy Communion of the Sangreal such as he and Louis Champlain had done in Wewelsburg during the Second Great War? At the time, he had thought it nothing more than another one of Himmler’s insanities, a farce! The man had always been experimenting with new and bizarre variations on the rituals of the Church. But he had drunk from the cup and only then realized that the dark red liquid in the bottom of the silver chalice had not been burgundy, but real blood. The act had almost caused him to lose his mind. Only Louis Champlain had saved him from himself at the time. Only Louis Champlain knew of this great sin. Only Louis. Not only did he possibly possess the blood of the Cathars through birth, he had participated in the secret rite! Surely his soul was damned and he had not even known it! He stood up abruptly and slammed his chair against the wall. He snatched up the papers and traced Louis’ lines through the chart.
“I must see Champlain! Where is he?” he asked the Knight of the Wisdom of Solomon.
“He is teaching a class in my stead.” Lavon shrugged. “World History.”
Barry nodded curtly and stormed out of the office.
(((((((((((((
The words of Jozsef Daniel had been true. The woman had come to the bastion just as he had said she would and she had brought well over two hundred of her people with her. They had come up the road bearing torches, singing and dancing much to Schweikert’s fear and dismay. He had feared that they had come to rout them out and was sure that it would end in a massacre and they would have to flee the island, but Jozsef had gone out to meet them and the people had lifted him up on their shoulders and brought him back inside.
The dancing and singing and music had gone on far into the night and on into the morning. They showered him with gifts and then performed great magickal ceremonies for his entertainment, sacrificing many goats, chickens and pigs in his honor, sprinkling and spraying each other with the blood of the dead animals while he sat overlooking the entire spectacle like a great King. In the end they had crowned him with a flower wreath and prostrated themselves at his feet, swearing their loyalty and literally worshipping him in their frenzied manner. Schweikert had remained staunchly at his Master’s side during the entire event and had received many honors and accolades, himself. He had been called Viceroy. Excellency. Imminence. Lord. Master. It had all been very pleasing.
The culmination of the ‘coronation’ was the sacrifice of a young woman which made Jozsef very secure in the notion that he had them under his spell, completely and without reservation. They would do anything and everything he asked and he asked very little of them… at first.
Before they had straggled out of the fortress just before sunrise, the High Priest and High Priestess had sworn to serve Jozsef as King and god, forsaking all others to follow him. He had promised to use his powers to bend the wills of the Orishas they had previously worshipped to whatever the people demanded. In effect, he had put them above the gods that they had formerly feared and worshipped and then set himself up as their supreme leader. In return, they had promised to spread the news and bring others to see the powers of the new King of Haiti who had come from beyond the stars to answer their prayers.
Schweikert had been very impressed. Jozsef had completely overwhelmed these simple, superstitious people with little if any trouble at all. He had accepted the sacrificed woman with grave dignity and mourned with them for the loss of her beauty and physical presence and then had come the act that had assured his success. He had raised her from the dead and healed her in front of their eyes. She had fallen in the dust at his feet, kissing his boots and the people had ceased all dancing and singing to stare in fear and wonder at this miracle.
To Schweikert’s surprise, he had given the girl of about eighteen years of age, back to her relatives and then bade them return the following night prepared to offer her to him in marriage. He would marry her and make her their queen for she had offered the most precious gift of all to him without hesitation. Her life blood.
The people had been overjoyed, frantic with elation. There was no doubt that they would be back, but Schweikert wondered if Jozsef thought that these poor people of limited means would be able to further his Master’s cause. They were untrained and undisciplined for the most part and seemed a motley crew with which to form a conquering army. Even if Jozsef took the entire country, there would be little to work with materially speaking. But Jozsef had assured him that he had entirely too little faith in his abilities and told him to have patience.
After the last of the people had gone back down the mountain and disappeared into the forest, Jozsef had gone up to the parapets to greet the sunrise of the glorious new day. He walked along the wall in the purple light of dawn with the wind blowing his hair under the crown of fragrant white flowers.
He turned to say something to his companion and went down on one knee, gripping the sides of his head in pain. Schweikert had tried to help him, only to be flung aside brutally as his Master rolled about on the stones in apparent agony for several moments.
Schweikert got to his feet slowly and stood well back from the dangerous entity he had come to serve.
Jozsef rolled over and got up to his hands and knees. He flung the flower garland over the edge of the parapet and then sat up, cross-legged on the stone, raising his face to the sky.
The general approached him cautiously.
“What is it, Master? Can I help?” he asked timidly.
“Someone has used one of the skulls.” Jozsef looked at him in wonder. “I felt it! I saw it! I saw the man. But I do not know the source.”
“Who? Who did you se
e?” The general knelt beside him.
“I saw the object of the skull’s search.” Jozsef closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. The power had struck him down. He had not known this was possible. The force had been crushing and unexpected. They could not use them without him knowing! And they did not know.
“Who has the skull?” Schweikert asked him excitedly. “I will go and take it for you!”
“A woman!” Jozsef frowned. “A woman. She is in motion!”
“Who did you see?” Schweikert asked him again.
“I saw the Knight of the Golden Eagle. The woman is moving toward him,” Jozsef told him in a low voice.
“Dambretti? Does he have the skull?”
“No. The woman had the skull. I do not know her.”
“Does she have it with her? Where is she? What does she look like?” Schweikert prompted him.
“I could not see her. She is searching for Dambretti. She has found him. She will go to him.”
“Does he know this? Is he in Italy?”
“He is in Scotland. She will go to Scotland.”
“And the skull?”
“It will remain where it is.”
“Tell me where it is, Master, and I will get it for you,” Schweikert spoke softly to him.
“No. It is where it should be.” Jozsef smiled at him. “They are already gathering them to the proper place. All we have to do is wait! I will know when the time is right.”
Schweikert sighed and helped his Master to his feet. He was tired of waiting.
“You are too eager, my friend,” Jozsef mused as they walked back down the wall with the sea breeze in their faces. “Perhaps a bit of activity would help your feelings. This woman seeks the Golden Eagle. He must be precious to her.”
“Yes! He is precious to many ladies, Master,” the general spoke with disgust of the Italian Knight. “Quite the dashing hero, he is.”
Thoth, the Atlantean Page 19