by Richard Reed
Darkness fell and the team carried on working under arc lights, their explanation about having to complete their work before the arrival of the legate being accepted without question. Finally, at about 10pm, David came to find her.
“We’re about to break through,” he said. “Do you want to come and join us?”
“Do I want to join you? I wouldn’t miss this for a million bucks.”
She followed David back to the trench and clambered down, ducking under the heavy timbers they had inserted beneath the wall of the Secret Room to join David and Guy at the ‘coal face’ of the dig.
“I reckon we’ve only got a couple of feet to go,” said Guy, giving her a sly wink. “David told me all about last night. Shame you didn’t have time to actually go and look inside.”
“Er, yes,” said Rachel sheepishly. “It took much longer than we expected. Still, at least we discovered the entrance. We’ll just have to hope the papal legate plays ball.”
“Some hope,” said David. “Still, if nothing else, we’ve proved the existence of the crypt, which was our official brief. The Church will find it hard to prevent it being opened up to the public with the whole of the world watching.”
As Guy started hacking at the last few inches of soil, Rachel raised her eyebrows at David, but he just shrugged. He had obviously decided not to tell Guy the full story at the moment, and while she knew he was trustworthy, she could understand why. The fewer people who knew the truth at the moment, the safer for everyone.
“Whoa,” said Guy, as he his spade suddenly bit through the last piece of soil and flew into the void behind, clattering down the steps to the crypt. “That must have been quite a big hole you made up there.”
“Shh!” said Rachel conspiratorially.
“Sorry!” Guy grabbed David’s spade and started enlarging the entrance, pushing the final few inches of spoil down onto the steps below. “There she blows,” he said, leaning forward and shining his headtorch down the steps. “Quite impressive.”
“OK Guy, I’ll clean up now – you take a break,” said David.
“Oh – OK,” said Guy, clearly disappointed.
“That was a bit harsh, wasn’t it?” said Rachel, as Guy disappeared.
“I didn’t want him charging down there and finding the tomb,” said David.
“Hell, no. OK, let’s get this sorted.”
David cleared the debris where they had broken through, then clambered up into the Secret Room and quickly set about shovelling the spoil from their illicit excavations into a bucket, which he lowered to Rachel to empty into the trench. Twenty minutes of hard work soon had the floor cleared. “It’s left a pretty big hole,” said David. “We’ll just have to claim the floor fell in, and blame it on Cholet’s backfilling. Right, let’s go and shut that trapdoor in the crypt. I left it open in case we needed to retrace our steps – we don’t want any incriminating evidence that we’ve been exploring down there.”
He lowered himself onto the staircase, and was joined by Rachel, who could now walk more or less unhindered straight through from the trench. They descended the steps to the door, which they noticed was shut.
“Didn’t you leave the door open?” queried David.
“I thought so,” said Rachel, unsure of herself. The door pushed open easily, and David continued down the stairway ahead of her – but stopped short as soon as he entered the crypt.
“It’s shut!” exclaimed David. “The trapdoor’s bloody shut! How the hell did that happen?”
“There’s only one way it could possibly have been closed,” said Rachel slowly. “Someone knows we were here.”
Chapter 17
Two hours’ snatched sleep and a hot shower were all they had time for before returning to the dig to meet the papal legate, David attired in his single, slightly crumpled suit; Rachel in a sexy, figure-hugging skirt and a blouse with plenty of décolletage. She might be a feminist, but she knew men’s weaknesses and intended to use every weapon in her formidable armoury. They arrived on site at 9am and waited nervously for the cardinal to arrive.
Hélène tried to quiz David about why the trench had gone under the Secret Room, but he played on his bad French and pretended not to understand. Rachel, whose French had become fairly good during her months out in the Languedoc, explained they had discovered the passageway by accident, and extended the trench to make it easier for the legate to gain access. Hélène clearly wasn’t happy, but it was a fait accompli, and with the legate due at any moment, she let the matter drop.
Finally at 11am a small cavalcade of cars drove up the narrow street and stopped outside the churchyard. The cardinal, a tall, burly man in his early 60s, easily identifiable by his red cap, stepped out, accompanied by a young, clean-cut, bespectacled priest, who was obviously his personal assistant. Monsigneur Billard, the Bishop of Carcassonne, whom they had already met, completed the party.
David and Rachel walked over to introduce themselves, and the cardinal’s secretary stepped forward. “Mr Tranter? And Miss Spencer? It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said in a hard, crisp voice. His English was almost flawless, coloured by a light Italian accent. “Allow me to introduce Cardinal Bertolotti, the most trusted envoy of His Holiness the Pope.”
“Your Eminence,” said David, bowing slightly and taking the cardinal’s outstretched hand. “We are honoured by your presence.”
“It is my pleasure,” he said, in a heavily accented voice, almost crushing David’s hand in a vice-like grip. “This is a big occasion, no? Perhaps we solve this mystery now. Though maybe the town is not happy if no more tourists are coming,” he joked. “And Miss Spencer? No-one told me you were such a bella donna. You are a lucky man, Mr Tranter.”
Rachel blushed deeply and tried hard not to look at David. “Thank you – Your Eminence is too kind.”
David took the cardinal to meet the rest of his team, and then introduced the museum staff. “Would you like some coffee, Your Eminence?”
“Coffee? We must solve this mystery, no? It is too exciting for coffee! Let us go and look now at your… how do you say? Dig?”
“Dig, that’s correct, Your Eminence. As you say, this is an exciting moment.”
David led the cardinal over to the trench, and noticed a frown cross his face when he saw the trench disappearing under the Secret Room. The man had clearly been doing his homework.
“We had intended to break through into the crypt over there,” said David, gesticulating vaguely, “but our technicians discovered a large cavity here with the ground-penetrating radar, and we were sure it was the entrance we had been looking for. It is much safer this way.” The cardinal looked puzzled and turned to his secretary, who quickly translated.
The cardinal nodded. “Very well,” he said gruffly. “It is not what we agreed, but now we are here…” he shrugged.
David glanced at Rachel for help, and she sidled up close to the cardinal. “We didn’t think it would be very dignified for you, crawling through a hole under the church,” she said with a winning smile. “This is much better. And there is less damage to the building, too.”
The cardinal seemed mollified by her presence, and returned her smile. “Very well,” he said. “Your explanation is ‘OK’, Miss Spencer…”
“Please, call me Rachel.”
“As you wish. Now, you show me the way?”
They all climbed down into the trench, and with Rachel leading and David bringing up the rear, they ducked under the outer wall of the Secret Room and emerged at right angles onto the stone staircase.
“Thank you,” said the cardinal. “And now I make the inspection. You have not entered the crypt, as was agreed?”
“No, Your Eminence. We checked to make sure there was access, of course – there is a door further down, but it’s not locked.”
The cardinal waited for an interpretation from his secretary. “But you did not go in?” he repeated sternly, at length.
“No, Your Eminence.”
The ca
rdinal studied David’s face intently for a few moments. “Very well,” he said at length, and beckoning to his secretary to go on ahead with the torch, started down the stairs.
The two men were gone for more than an hour, and when they reappeared the cardinal face was grim.
This time he left the talking to his secretary. “His Eminence cannot allow you to enter the crypt at the moment,” he said. “There are some unusual features which we would like the Vatican’s experts to examine. And to be frank, Mr Tranter, by departing from the agreed plan, you have committed a breach of trust. The graveyard belongs to the council, but we expressly forbade you to dig on church property. Our agreement extended only to you being allowed to excavate a small opening in the outer wall of the church, to prove the existence of a crypt. As a result of your actions, we are under no obligation to cooperate further with National Geographic on this matter.”
David’s face grew thunderous. “Are you telling me you are not going to tell anyone what you’ve found down there?” he asked angrily.
“And what have we found down there, Mr Tranter?” queried the secretary icily. “You seem very agitated – I am sure you have seen many such crypts in your time; what makes this one so special?”
“You know damn well what makes this special! You can’t just sit on this…” He broke off as Rachel stepped forward and put her hand on his arm.
“Not now, David, you’re tired,” she said quietly. “This is neither the time nor the place. We can use the media to put pressure on the Vatican – having a row with the cardinal isn’t going to help matters. In the meantime, we have other fish to fry, don’t we?” She gave him a conspiratorial smile.
David relaxed visibly at her touch. “OK,” he said ruefully. “I guess you’re right.”
He turned to the cardinal and bowed slightly. “I am sorry, Your Eminence. We meant no harm – were simply trying to make the inspection easier for you. I hope we can discuss this further at a later date.”
The cardinal was about to reply, but the secretary stepped in once more. “Your personal apology is accepted, Mr Tranter. But I’m afraid it is bound to effect our relationship with National Geographic, at least in the short term. Perhaps we can talk further in a few months’ time, when our experts have examined the site. As from today, this access will be locked. And there will be cameras, too,” he added, looking at David meaningfully.
David swallowed his anger as the two men left the scene and returned to their cars. There followed a little flurry of activity as another priest in full clerical attire, looking slightly surreal with a Nikon hanging from his neck, returned to the crypt with the secretary to take some official photographs. An hour later and the party had gone, leaving an industrial-sized padlock and chain on the crypt door.
“Damn,” said David, as they sat in the Finds Room later, drowning their sorrows in a bottle of wine. “I know it was all totally predictable, but it’s still frustrating. “People have a right to know…”
“And they will, David,” said Rachel, putting her hand on his. She couldn’t help feeling guilty about the situation, having badgered David into going on their night-time expedition. But she equally knew that had they not done so, they would have learned nothing about the contents of the crypt. There was no way the Vatican was going to release that information, not now, not next year, not ever.
“Let’s focus on what we have got.” She lowered her voice. “We know about the Magdalene. We know she had a child, paternity unknown. And we have that scroll, which may give us the proof we need to go public. And on a different track, we have the coin from the Visigoth burial chamber…”
David’s face blanched.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“The scroll is still in the camera case!”
They rushed out of the museum and across to the dig cabin. The rest of the team had been sent home for the day, and it was now locked. David fumbled with the keys, and once inside, rushed to pick up the case, still lying on the folding table where he had left it. He opened it and gave a sigh of relief.
“Thank God for that,” he said. “It’s still in one piece – that really would have been a disaster. I’ll get this into preservation straight away. It will mean using the Finds Room, but I don’t see any alternative. The museum is alarmed at night, and no-one will have a clue what it is among all the other bits and pieces we’ve dug up since we’ve been here.”
Chapter 18
Montségur, spring 1242
Philippa ran up the stone spiral stairway and burst into the isolated tower room where Pierre-Roger, dispossessed Lord of Mirepoix, was ensconced with her father Raymond, her face dancing with delight.
“Husband, have you heard the news? The Count of Toulouse is finally packing his bags and going home – the siege is no more!”
She hesitated as she took in the scene in front of her: the two men were standing over the table, studying a crude map, but their body language suggested she had broken in on a heated argument.
Pierre-Roger looked up testily, annoyed at the interruption. One glance at her glowing face, however, and his anger melted. They had been wedded these three years past, but she had not shared his bed until her 16th birthday, barely three months before. Now that they were together at last, they were blissfully happy.
At 45, he had felt awkward, though such dynastic alliances were commonplace. His initial doubts and fears about the match had been ill-founded, however, for Philippa’s vitality and sparkle – not to mention her raven-haired beauty – had rapidly made her mistress of his heart. And in a country ravaged by war, children had to grow up fast; she had shown evidence of a sharp mind and a wise head to match her physical maturity.
As for Philippa, marrying the dashing Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix, the knight commander of Montségur – famous for his exploits as a warrior in the Cathar cause – was a dream come true. Despite her initial unhappiness at Montségur, when Pierre-Roger had arrived in 1234 to help her studious father run the militia at the new Cathar capital, she fell head over heels in love with him in the way only a young girl could. But childhood hero-worship turned into something much deeper over the next few years as Philippa came into womanhood, and his daring raids on the forces of King Louis served only to heighten her feelings for him – a fact not unnoticed by her mother.
Corba saw the budding romance as a way of providing her daughter with protection in dangerous times, notwithstanding Pierre-Roger’s sometimes foolhardy exploits. She, too, had felt misgivings about marriage at such a tender age, but events on the ground were still moving rapidly, and she had to act quickly. Now that Philippa’s single-minded elder sister, Esclarmonde, had not only taken the Cathar faith but become a parfaite, Corba had been left with no option but to engineer a marriage for Philippa. Parfaits were celibate, and Corba’s bloodline must continue. She couldn’t afford the risk of Philippa following in her sister’s footsteps. Corba had expected some resistance to the suggestion of marriage, given the age difference, but Philippa had been overjoyed at the suggestion.
Now the child-bride was fast becoming a woman of substance.
“Yes, I heard,” said Pierre-Roger, smiling. “Though in truth, it was no real siege. They never tried to stop us smuggling supplies into the château. Raymond VII may not be the man his father was, but he still supports the Cathar cause, whatever he has told King Louis.”
“So what plot are you hatching now?” asked Philippa, moving over to the table and standing between the two men she loved most in the world. She looked down at the map spread out before them. “Not another sortie, I hope – your leg has barely healed from that crossbow quarrel you took in the raid on Puivert.” A puzzled look crossed her face as she continued to stare at the crude cartography. “Why have you drawn a circle around Avignonet? It’s half-way to Toulouse.”
“I’m sorry, Philippa, but I’m not at liberty to discuss this with you. Too much rests upon the outcome.”
“I am your wife, now,” she said, flushing w
ith anger at his tone. “And not just in name. I might be carrying your child – I have a right to know if you’re putting yourself in needless danger.”
“You are with child?” he queried.
“I cannot be sure yet, but I believe so. That gives me a right to know. I am not just your wife – you know my heritage.”
“Raymond,” said Pierre-Roger, turning to his father-in-law. “Please reason with the girl. The fewer people that know about this, the better.”
Raymond gave his daughter a rueful look and smiled. “She has a point. You were warned what you were getting yourself into when you married her – in more ways than one. I know she can be headstrong, but she is mature beyond her years. And you did swear an oath to protect her, and consult her at all times on anything that might affect the safety of her bloodline.”
“And so I will! But does that extend to military strategy?”
“You were planning to lead the raid yourself, were you not? As I was saying before she came in, I myself am not at all happy with the idea.”
“You’re not seriously thinking of attacking Avignonet?” exclaimed Philippa in disbelief. “Have you completely lost your wits?”
“Mind your manners, wife,” said Pierre-Roger, running his hands through his hair in exasperation. “It’s not quite as simple as that. Very well then, I’ll tell you. But you must swear on your life not to breathe a word of this to anyone – not even to your mother.”
“I swear,” said Philippa, steadily holding his gaze. “Now tell me, what is so important about Avignonet that you would risk your life travelling 20 leagues through countryside swarming with the king’s men?”
Pierre-Roger took a deep breath. “You mentioned the siege that King Louis forced Raymond to undertake to prove his allegiance, after he refused to help put down Trencavel’s uprising.”
“Never mind not helping Louis! Raymond should have gone to Trencavel’s aid when he returned from Aragon – he is the rightful lord of Carcassonne!” said Philippa angrily. “Trencavel took Limoux and Montréal with just a small band of Catalan mercenaries – imagine how easily Carcassonne would have fallen if Raymond had joined his side. But no, he sat on his hands and did nothing.”