by Richard Reed
He picked up the phone and hit speed-dial. “Delaney, it’s me. Have you made any progress with that little matter we spoke of? You took care of that interfering old biddy? Good. And the other two?” There was a pause, and as the voice continued, Pastor Bob went livid with rage. “Your guy missed the shot?” he yelled at the receiver. “And he served in the Marine Corps? No wonder this country’s going to the Devil. Goddamn it man, do you have any idea how important this is? I told you what it would mean if this got out. Those two have got to be stopped…”
He paused as an anxious voice sought to reassure him. “I don’t care if they have ‘slipped off the radar’, Delaney – you’d better find them again, and pronto. You sure as hell had better get this mess sorted, or you’ll find yourself working out of the Alaska office pretty darn soon. Keep your focus on that damned village – they’ll be back, you mark my words. They’ve got unfinished business there. And next time, your man had better not fucking miss.”
Chapter 39
Florence, Tuscany, northern Italy, 1450
Vanni di Niccolo di Ser Vanni paced the light, airy room of his house in Florence’s Via Ghibellinia as vigorously as his ageing bones would allow, wincing periodically as a spasm of pain juddered through his injured hip. He paused, breath rattling in his throat.
“Must you always be so accursedly stubborn, Caterina?” the ageing banker said at length. “I may not be long for this world, and I must needs make provision for you and your mother. She has agreed to this. Since the followers of Waldo chose to spread from their Piedmont valleys and start converting the Pope’s flock it has become increasingly dangerous in these parts. It will not be long before His Holiness takes action against them, and that makes you extremely vulnerable. I have a duty to protect you.”
The pretty, dark-haired sixteen-year-old stared at him defiantly. “And you think assigning me in your last will and testament to your friend Ser Piero, as if I were some portion of your chattel, is fitting for a daughter of the Madeleine?”
“Your safety is all that matters,” sighed Ser Vanni. “Surely you must understand that. And surely, too, you must understand that since I married your mother following your father’s death, I have an obligation to protect and care for you. You know, Caterina, that I love you as if you were my own flesh and blood. It grieves me to see you so distressed, but there is a greater good to be served here.”
“Like the Cathars before them, the Waldensians are true followers of Christ’s teachings – unlike the Church of Rome. They teach the word of God as Jesus intended, not the corrupt, self-serving lies spread by the priests! Thanks to the intercession of my ancestor, Lady Philippa de Mirepoix, and with God’s grace, in time all men and women will be free from this heresy that the Pope is God’s appointed on earth, that we must only believe what we are told by his priests, and not be free to read and understand the Holy Bible for ourselves.”
“Hush Caterina, that sort of talk will have you burned for a heretic.”
“Nonetheless, the time is also coming when the minds of men and women will be set free, and I must play my part in that, whatever it may be.”
“And so you can, if you must, when you are come of age – or marry, and then, of course, your husband will decide. Assuming you can find a man to take you – you are become so headstrong it is hard to see anyone willing to bear that burden. But until then, my will must prevail. That is my decision, and it is final. Your disguise as a maidservant will be maintained, and you will be placed under Ser Piero’s guardianship. He is a good man, and a good friend. You will serve as his housekeeper until you come of age. Your mother and I are both agreed that it will be safer for you living in the country than here, in Florence, under the eagle eye of the Medicis – it won’t be long before one of them bribes their way to the Holy See, you mark my words. You need a man of position to protect you. And that’s an end to it,” he added, as she opened her mouth to protest once more.
He smiled to himself as Caterina stormed off. He had to admit there was an ulterior motive to the somewhat unusual arrangement he proposed. He took his duties as her protector seriously, and in his mind there was no question that she needed a strong husband. He would need to be of great intellect, or with her razor-sharp mind she would not respect him, but he would also need to be handsome and charming – for in that regard, Caterina was no different to any other girl her age.
The likeable Ser Piero Da Vinci had undertaken some complex legal work for Ser Vanni which he had accomplished with flair and intelligence, and over the course of several months the younger man had become a firm friend – so much so that he had almost come to regard him as the son God had never granted him. Ser Piero was the perfect match for Caterina: a rapidly maturing young man some 15 years older – mature enough to handle her headstrong ways – and with a glittering career ahead. And he undoubtedly had the looks and charisma to win her heart, of that he had no doubt.
All he had to do was throw them together and let nature take its course…
Barely two summers passed before the ague took Ser Vanni, though he had yet to reach 60 years, and the notary assigned to execute the will – Ser Filippo di Cristofano – went to some lengths to ensure that his wishes for the comfort of Caterina and her mother, Agnola were followed closely.
As prescribed in his will, much of Ser Vanni’s wealth was left to the monks of San Girolamo da Fiesole, though the Abbot knew something of his widow’s connections to the Waldensians and refused to accept the legacy. The Archbishop of Florence had no such misgivings, however.
Ser Vanni’s house in Via Ghibellinia was assigned to Ser Piero da Vinci, with the proviso that Agnola be allowed to remain in the house until her death. Caterina, however, would earn her keep by running Ser Piero’s family home in the village of Vinci, a day’s ride from the political machinations of Florence.
What Ser Vanni could not have known was that in the months leading to his death, as he lay weak and feeble on his sickbed, Da Vinci had agreed a dynastic alliance with one of his closest legal rivals in Florence, Ser Piero di Carlo del Viva – who saw the younger man’s potential – and, more importantly, had become betrothed to Del Viva’s teenage daughter Albiera.
Chapter 40
Saturday morning found Rachel and David waiting impatiently in their hotel room for another call. Rachel’s phone rang out a shrill pop tune, and since she was in the bathroom, David snatched it up. “It’s your daughter,” he said tersely, as Rachel emerged. “Try to keep it brief.”
Rachel gave him an evil look as she took the phone. “Hi sweetheart – thanks for calling back. I’m in a hotel at the Carcassonne at the moment. No, everything’s OK; we’re just doing some research here.” She scowled at David’s frustrated expression, and turned away to chat.
David grew more animated as the minutes passed, and he gesticulated at her frantically. “You gave her your number,” he hissed.
Rachel glared at him. “OK darling, well I’d better go – we’re expecting another call. I promise I’ll be home to see you soon… I know I said that a couple of weeks ago, but it’s been really frantic out here. Daddy’s looking after you OK, isn’t he? Good. OK, I promise I’ll be home soon. Bye sweetheart.”
She hung up and turned to David, glowering. “Just don’t say a word,” she said savagely.
When the call finally came, it was on David’s phone. It was brief and to the point.
“This time she handed me straight over to a guy who claims to be protecting her,” said David, in response to Rachel’s interrogatory look. “He’s told me to drive to a rendezvous, where we’ll get further directions.”
Rachel raised her eyebrows. “Well, I guess she needs protecting. I’m glad she’s not on her own.”
They left the hotel immediately and made their way to the car they had picked up from a local hire company the previous afternoon.
“So where are we going?” asked Rachel as they climbed into the Renault.
“I’m not sure, exactly. All I kno
w is we’re heading for Bugarach, to start with.”
“That’s on the way to Camps-sur-Agly, isn’t it?”
“Yes – though I doubt we’ll be going there again, after what’s happened. We’ll get further directions when we arrive at the rendezvous.”
They sped south out of Carcassonne towards Couiza, where they turned off down a tiny lane that led into the hills.
“We do want to get there in one piece,” Rachel said through gritted teeth, as the car screeched round a series of blind, tortuous bends. “This is a Clio, not a Range Rover – if we hit something at this speed, we’re dead.”
“Timing is critical. If we don’t contact them within the hour, it’s all off until tomorrow. I know it’s all rather cloak-and-dagger, but the guy was adamant. He says his role now is to protect Marianne at all cost.”
Rachel kept her silence until, a few kilometres up the road, they skidded round a hairpin bend on two wheels. David lost control and the car spun sideways off the road, narrowly missing a tree before ending up facing the way they had come.
“DAVID!” she bellowed in anger, which, combined with a withering look, was enough to make him drive more soberly – at least until they reached a bigger road. From there it was a simple, if still frighteningly fast, journey through the winding valley to the pretty village of Bugarach, nestling below the brooding massif of Le Pech de Bugarach.
David pulled off the road when he reached the village recycling centre, pulled out his phone, scrolled to the ‘Recent Calls’ list and punched the ‘Return Call’ button.
“Pierre? David here. We’re at…” he paused, grimacing as he was interrupted. “Of course, I understand. OK, where do we go now… right, see you soon.”
He put the car in gear and set off again, this time at a more sedate pace, before turning down a tiny lane. The road took them down a seemingly impossible route between the steep flanks of Le Pech de Bugarach and a neighbouring peak, picking its way along the side of a stream as it twisted and turned along the steeply wooded bank of the ravine.
“Hey, is that where we’re headed for?” queried Rachel, after a while, catching a glimpse of a beautiful white château through the trees. “Now that’s what I call impressive!”
“That must be it,” said David, turning off down a gravel drive. “And you’re right, it is pretty spectacular.”
The building in question was a large manor house, originally quite old, but heavily restored with mock battlements and other neo-Gothic flourishes. As they pulled into the courtyard, two burly men in combat fatigues, both armed with pistols, appeared from the adjacent stable block. One stood back, pointing his gun at the car, while the other came up to the driver’s door.
“Monsieur Tranter?” he asked in a heavy Occitan accent, as David wound down the window.
“Oui – and Rachel Spencer.”
“The password?”
“Fleur-de-lys.”
“Get out of the car, and leave the keys in the ignition, s’il vous plaît.”
David and Rachel slowly climbed out of the vehicle, while the second man edged closer. They could see he was holding a pair of handcuffs.
“D’accord. Now turn to face the car and put your hands together behind your backs.”
They did as they were bidden and the two men moved swiftly behind them, snapping the handcuffs in place on both their wrists so they were locked together.
“Is this really necessary?” asked Rachel angrily.
“Mam’selle, we do this only to protect our lady. Please accept my apologies, but we have met neither of you before.”
Rachel reluctantly acquiesced, and they were politely but firmly escorted by the arm through a side-door in the château. Once inside, they were led down a long, dusty flagstone corridor, up a stone spiral staircase, then along another, more modern corridor with wood-panelled walls and a carpeted floor. Here they paused outside a pair of ornately carved oak doors.
The man who had interrogated them knocked briefly before opening the doors and ushering the pair inside. They entered a spacious, airy room, with large sash windows flanked by ornate panelled shutters overlooking the courtyard below. Two people sat at a heavy mahogany table in earnest conversation, although they stood as their guests entered.
One was an older man, perhaps in his late sixties, impeccably dressed in a light grey suit, and wearing a crimson cravat. The other was a slim, attractive, olive-skinned young woman in her late twenties, wearing a simple pencil skirt and white blouse, her dark hair tied back in a pony tail.
“Please, forgive our manners,” said the old gentleman in impeccable English, stepping forward to greet them, “but we must proceed with the greatest caution.” He turned to a laptop computer on the table where they had been sitting. “Are these our friends?” he asked.
“Oui, that is them,” came the response in a voice they both recognised. Although several feet away, Rachel could clearly distinguish Hélène’s face on the webcam window.
“Then we have nothing to fear,” said the old man. “Merci, Hélène. We will be in touch again shortly.” The webcam window went blank. He turned to his guests. “The marvels of modern technology, my friends! Who would have thought it.” He spoke briefly to their two guards in French, who unshackled them before abruptly leaving the room, shutting the doors behind them. Rachel had no doubt they were waiting outside.
“It would have been much easier if Hélène had been able to join us in person, but she was too close to Ann-Marie. She would most certainly have been followed here. And you must forgive me, I forget my manners once more. Please allow me to introduce myself – I am Gilles Lacoste, le Comte de Puylaurent.”
Rachel gave a start at hearing the name of one of the faydits, the dispossessed Cathar aristocracy. Was their line still alive to this day?
“And this delightful young lady is my ward, Marianne. Of whom I think you know.”
Marianne stepped forward, smiling. “I am so pleased to meet you both at last. Hélène has told me so much about you and your work.”
“It’s wonderful to meet you too,” said Rachel, taking the lead. “We were so very sorry to hear about your grandmother. She was a wonderful lady.”
“Oui. It is very sad,” said Marianne, her eyes clouding for a moment.
“Marianne,” said David, stepping forward and offering his hand.
“You English are so formal,” laughed Marianne, and leaning forward, kissed him on both cheeks. “So,” she continued, “we have much to discuss. Shall we sit down?” She gestured to the table, while Gilles moved over to the wall and rang an ancient iron bell-pull. A few minutes later, a side-door opened and an immaculately dressed waiter appeared, pushing a trolley laden with hors d’oeuvres and a large cafetière of fresh coffee.
“So, where do we start?” said Rachel.
“It is difficult. There is so much to discuss,” said Marianne. “First you deserve an explanation for your reception here today. I think you know, now, that we have dangerous enemies, and because of what you have found, you are very much on their, how do you say, ‘hit list’.”
“I think we’ve already figured that out,” said David ruefully. “I didn’t have the opportunity to explain on the phone, but I was shot at two days ago in Rennes-le-Château, outside the museum. I quite literally felt the bullet part my hair. Put into context, it makes the road accident Rachel was involved in look like a deliberate attempt on her life, though I have to confess I was sceptical at first.”
“Yes, we heard about the incident at Rennes,” said Marianne.
“You knew?”
“We may have enemies, but we also have many friends.”
“So cutting to the chase – and I mean no offence – if you have so many friends, why do you need our help?”
“No, it’s a fair question,” said Marianne, noticing Rachel’s scowl. “Put simply, you have the expertise to help us find what has been lost. And you have the ability to put that on, how do you say, ‘prime-time TV’? We need to get
the message out there. Once the truth is known, all our lives will be safer – they cannot touch us with the world watching. But more importantly, people have a right to know the truth about Our Lord’s message.”
“I assume you’re referring to the Lost Gospel that Hélène told us about,” put in Rachel. “It contains some important revelations?”
“Absolutely! Mary was not just Christ’s wife, but his most enlightened disciple. In the Pistis Sophia, one of the gospels conveniently left out of the New Testament, Jesus says to her, ‘Thou art she whose heart is more directed to the Kingdom of Heaven than all thy brothers’. This much I know: the gospel contains spiritual insights that will forever change the face of Christianity.
“The gospel is also one of the earliest sources of information about Jesus and his work. It predates Matthew, Luke and John, and probably even Mark, the earliest gospel in the Bible. As I think Hélène told you, it was written by Our Lady, Mary Magdalene, and handed down to her children – of whom I am a direct descendant.”
She looked unblinkingly at David. There was something about her calm, hazel eyes and serene expression that suggested she might be speaking the truth – either that, or she was completely deluded.
“We know the gospel explains many things that the early Roman Church chose not to share with its followers when it decided what to include and what to exclude from the Bible,” continued Marianne.
“It was one of David’s fellow countrymen, Sir Isaac Newton, who first drew people’s attention to what he called a ‘monumental tampering with scripture’. He cited as an example additions made to explain the hopelessly complicated idea of the Holy Trinity that was cobbled together at the Council of Nicea in AD 325, in response to the so-called Arian heresy. Later, the fraudulent text was even translated back into Greek to make it seem authentic.
“In fact, the New Testament as we know it today was largely put together by just three men in the 3rd and 4th centuries: Origen, Eusebius and Athanasius.