by Lazlo Ferran
“No. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“I don’t like being hungry.”
“Neither do I. We just have to put up with it.”
She smiled at me. “You know you bring out the little girl in me. It’s been a long time since I was able to do that. I have been selfish most of my life, and haven’t really got close to anyone. But now you are my shining White Knight.” She was silent for a moment. “Do you ever think about having more kids?”
“That’s a strange question.”
“I don’t know. I have been thinking about it. I don’t feel as if I have much time left, and I never have had the chance to discuss it with anyone.”
“Don’t worry baby. You’ll be fine. I’m going to look after you.”
“I am not so sure. But don’t change the subject.”
“Well. I haven’t thought about it really. To be honest I am just focused on finding out what happened to Annie. She is still my daughter, and I owe it to her to find out what happened.”
“I know where we are now. Okay. Just follow this street.”
Soon I started recognising places too. I knew we were approaching the centre of the City. We turned onto the north bank of the Seine and headed west. Eventually we passed the Eiffel Tower on our left and then I recognised it.
“That’s the bridge isn’t it?”
“Yes.. Turn right and follow the street.”
“Oh yes!” I said as we drove. “This is cool! We are in the film!”
“I hear that the flat is up here but I don’t know. I have never tried to find it.”
We both peered up at each building as I slowed the car to walking pace. A car behind kept honking its horn before driving past.
“I don’t know. I am not sure. I don’t remember the front of the flat at all!”
“No. Me neither.”
“Well that’s it I guess. What time is it?” I asked.
“I don’t know. About ten I guess.”
“I am tired now. I really would like to stop.”
“Stop then. Just for a few minutes.”
“No. It’s not safe.”
“Where now? I could sleep right now.”
“You decide. But don’t tell me.”
“Okay.”
We drove on for two hours or more and the fuel gauge on the dashboard was showing almost empty. Even I was starting to think seriously about stopping. It seemed as if perhaps they had lost us. I didn’t feel the eye on me as strongly as before. We were climbing up a steep hill and I guessed where we were. At a set of traffic lights my eyes closed momentarily and again the image of Georgina twisting on the end of a rope in Notre Dame flashed into my mind. This time, after laughing, one of the men in robes spoke to me. “She is not what you think she is. She is not a member of Ordo Lupus. Ask her about the Ordo Loup-garou. She is your enemy.” I jerked awake and when the lights changed, drove on. I puzzled over what had come into my mind. It had a strange resonance but I didn’t want to think about it.
“Sacré-Coeur!” I said. “Let’s stop. There are loads of people around and it’s really late now. We will be safe for a few minutes.”
With the crowds thronging around the great Church, even this late, I thought we would probably be safe. I parked the car and we walked hand-in-hand around the white Basilica. Apart from the great age-gap, we could be just another romantic couple, just like many of those around us. For a few moments, we felt normal, as if we belonged. We faced each other and kissed, holding hands.
“We are going to survive, aren’t we?” she said.
“I think so. But we must be cautious.” We walked for quite a while, hardly talking, but enjoying the sociable atmosphere, and the pleasant burble of people talking. On the north side of the Basilica there is a bridge. The brick-paved street passes over another street, lined with houses, and on the bridge, a young American couple stopped us to take their photo. I shied off but Georgina was game, and the shutter clicked, as the couple from Idaho locked hands and grinned for the family back home. I had been behind them and Georgina walked back towards me as they walked the other way.
She was in a small crowd of people moving the same way on the pavement and I looked away for a moment. I remembered what the monk had said to me in the Notre Dame scene in my head and for a moment I doubted her. As I looked back, she smiled at me. Then I thought I saw an arm extend towards Georgina, and she lurched to her right, on the very precipice of the bridge. There was a low railing, at waist height, but it was rusty and loose, and she pitched over the edge with it, yelling out.
“Georgina!” I cried. I reached for her but she was gone. Her body vanished into the night. I yelled “No!” at the top of my lungs, and ran in what seemed like slow-motion to the spot from where she had fallen. A crowd was peering over the edge. I looked too, but I could see nothing. “Oh God! Does anybody know how to get down there?” I asked. There were lots of shaking heads. Desperately, I ran away from the bridge, heading back past the Basilica and took the first road on the right. By luck and instinct more than anything else, a few turns later, I found myself on the street that passed under the bridge. There I saw what I dreaded. A small crowd stooping over a crumpled shape on the road. I ran up to them and pushed them roughly aside. “Out of my way. She’s my girlfriend!”
I could hear a murmur but couldn’t hear what they were saying. Then a voice spoke up.
“Somebody is calling an ambulance.”
“Where?”
“Over there.” He pointed to a house with an open front door.
“Georgina?” I bent down and put my hand on her lips, to feel for a sign of breathing. There was none. She looked almost as if she were asleep, in a foetal position, apart from the dark pool which was spreading from under her right cheek. I wanted to lift her and hold her, but I knew if there were any chance of saving her I should leave her. When the ambulance finally came, siren wailing, I climbed in and accompanied her to the hospital, but I knew she was gone.
“I am sorry,” one of the paramedics said. I sat beside her still body until finally, at 3am, the Gendarmes arrived to take a statement. An officer accompanied me to a quiet little room and gave me a statement sheet and a pen. “Can I have some privacy please?” I asked. When he had gone, after writing only a few lines, I quietly slipped out of another door and left the building.
On the sheet, signing it illegibly, I had written, ‘We were on the bridge at Sacré-Coeur. Georgina had just taken a photo for some American tourists and was walking towards me in the crowd. Suddenly I thought I saw an arm reach out from the crowd and push her. I am not sure. Anyway she fell against the rusty railing, which gave way and she went over the edge, hitting the road below. A crowd had gathered by the time I reached her and somebody had called an ambulance. She was not breathing but I thought there was a weak pulse. That is all.’
In the end, I wasn’t sure if she fell, or was pushed.
Chapter Seven
2493, 2133, 2986, 1596, 899, 2731, 1243, 2148
“Georgina! Georgina! What a mixed up girl but for a while she had filled the space that Rose had left empty. For a while. She would love to have been here in the Secret Chapel, exploring ancient and esoteric symbols. Her death was such a blow to me – not because we were close, we had only known each other a few days – but because I had let her down. I believed I could keep her alive, keep her from Pastor Michel, and I had told her so, but in end I had failed. I shook my head slowly at the desolation that had come into my life lately. All seemed so dark. Now I have finished reading Rose’s note, I reflect on it. It hurt to read the parts about not including Rose in my deepest thoughts, and Henry. Both are true. And yet there was so much warmth in the statement it made me remember how much I cared for her. The fact that it had taken so many words for her to express her feelings also touched me and made me smile. She was clearly struggling to come to terms with her own feelings. Only such a passionate woman as Rose, and one who’s relationship with me had been formed under such diff
icult circumstances, could care enough to try and make the pain of separation as little as possible. I think about her comment that I am a tenacious seeker of truth. I remember how I took the next step to discovering the location of the Crypt – meeting Ayshea.”
I took a taxi back to the flat, and nervously approached the door to the block. I need to get my things, and find an answer to a few questions, but I had no idea if the flat was being watched or not. A man I had seen on the stairs before, walked out of the night and up to the door. I pretended to rummage in my pocket for a key, and followed him in. He smiled at me. “Bon soir.”
There was no alternative but to force Georgina’s sister’s door. I did it as quietly as I could, but there was a loud crack as the lock gave way, and then I was in the flat. I stuffed my books and papers back into my bag and as many of the new clothes as I could. I put my jacket on and went into the bedroom. I grabbed the little black notebook, brown leather scrap book, the copy of the Malleus Maleficarum and a few other books at random and put them in the bag too. Finally I grabbed her handbag, stuffed that in the bag, and left. Already as I descended the stairs, I could see a few doors ajar, suspicious faces watching me. No doubt the Gendarmes would be here soon and I thought briefly that I should have covered my face.
Where to go now? I was still reeling inside from Georgina’s death and I desperately needed somewhere private to let out my emotions. I thought about my car but dismissed it as too risky. The only thing I could think of was a café and a hot drink. There would be food too, but I knew I would have to force myself to eat. I walked for about thirty minutes and entered the quietest bistro I could find. It was 4 am and dawn would not be far off. I forced down a veal goulache and had the waiter bring me one coffee after another. I must have looked a mess because he eyed me suspiciously. I didn’t get the smile he gave the other customers, but perhaps they were regulars. I wasn’t the only one in the bistro who was simply passing time. An old guy with white hair and a long Gallic nose, which dipped inside the rim of his glass, sipped something clear in a glass, in the corner of the room at a masterfully slow pace. I wished I still smoked, so that I would have something to do with my hands. I wanted to take out the books but it wasn’t safe. Finally, the pale, early morning sunlight fingered the carpet beneath the front windows. The waiter told me it was 7.45. I paid the bill, and left. My only plan was to walk the few miles to the Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal, find the ‘Encyclopedia of French Medieval History’, and see if there was a reference to Le Pilon in it. It seemed such a small plan, like a white bone left on a plate after a huge meal had been eaten, but it was all I had left.
I reached the Library before opening time but I was too tired to walk anymore so I stood silently in the short queue, before being admitted. It didn’t take long to find the ‘Encyclopedia of French Medieval History’, which was a reference book and not available for loan. It was about three inches thick, with thousands of colour illustrations, and after briefly marveling at them, I turned to the index. My finger traced down the entries for ‘P’ and suddenly it was there. ‘Le Pilon’ was right in front of me, and for a moment I wasn’t sure what to do next. I turned to the page reference, and there was a beautiful photograph of a Cathedral, one I did not recognise. I felt sad, somehow, that Georgina was not here to see it as I started reading.
‘Born in 1456, Jeanne Laisné, also known as Jeanne Fourquet was a heroine of Beauvais and nicknamed Jeanne Hachette (‘Jean the Hatchet’). She is known for a single act of heroism on 27 June 1472. At the time the town of Beauvais was defended by only 300 men-at-arms, commanded by Louis de Balagny. Jeanne Laisné prevented the capture of Beauvais by the troops of Charles the Bold, duke of Burgundy.
The Burgundians had launched an assault on the main garrison, and one of their number had actually planted a flag upon the battlements, when Jeanne, wielding an axe, flung herself upon him, threw him down into the moat, tore down the flag, and thus revived the failing courage of the soldiers of the garrison. Louis XI was so grateful that he instituted a procession called the “Procession of the Assault,” and married Jeanne to her chosen lover Colin Pilon, also known as Le Pilon, bestowing on them many favours.’
So the hero was actually a heroine! I had never heard of Beauvais. Did it even have a cathedral? It sounded like some small village somewhere in rural France. I remembered the inscriptions on the base of the bronze statues – B’vs or BV. That seemed to support it. But I certainly needed more information. I wondered what the ‘sk’ in the inscriptions and also what the name Piere Drang Clenn meant. I looked for that name in the index but found nothing. I looked also for a name that would have the initials S.K. but again found nothing. I was idly looking at a map of France to see where Beauvais was, when one of those moments of serendipity that are so rare in life, happened. Until then, my luck had seemed to be all bad, but perhaps now it was about to change. I jumped as an alarm bell rang metallically, throughout the large hall of the library. All the visitors looked at each other, wondering what was going on, and soon the library staff were ushering us out of the library, and into the street.
“Vite! Vite! Quittez la bibliothèque.”
“What’s happening?” I asked a young man waving his arms at us.
“It is probably nothing monsieur. Probably a member of staff smoking in the storage rooms. Quick now!”
I quickly stuffed my notes into the bag, and stood up while he looked on disapprovingly. As I did so I put my hand inadvertently on the Encyclopedia which was already on the edge of the desk and brushed it off of the table. I caught it clumsily before it fell and placed it back on the table. I noticed that something made of card had half fallen from between two pages and I quickly snatched it up before being ushered with the crowd, to the door. We assembled on the pavement and I looked at what I had found. It was a business card with the words Concilium Putus Visum scrawled on the reverse side. For a moment I was stunned. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Then I tucked the card into my pocket and quickly walked away from the library. I found a telephone box and called the number on the card.
“Allo?”
“Ah. Bonjour. Do you speak English?”
“Yes.”
“Are you Ayshea Aikborne? I found your business card in a copy of the ‘Encyclopedia of French Medieval History’ in the Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal today with the words ‘Concilium Putus Visum’ written on the back.”
“Oh, yes. I must have left it there.”
“Well I am researching the ‘Concilium Putus Visum’ and wondered if we could meet?”
“Really? You have heard of the ‘Concilium Putus Visum’? It’s a very obscure area of research and I have not found many others who are interested.”
“Well I definitely am. Can we meet?”
“Okay. Where are you now?”
“A few blocks from the library.”
“Okay. Wait outside the library. I will be there in thirty minutes. Okay?”
“Yes. Fine. I will be there. I will be holding a black bag and wearing an overcoat.”
“In this weather? Okay.”
I couldn’t believe my luck. Not only had I found somebody else who knew about the ‘Concilium Putus Visum’ but she was willing to talk.
After forty minutes or so, a young woman wearing a green dress, with severe looking spectacles balanced on her freckled nose and the tight bun on top of her blonde hair, waked straight up to me and held out her hand like a dagger. I noticed that she was wearing blue plastic flip-flops and I laughed to myself. Wow! She is really weird.
“Ayshea,” she said.
I told her my name and we found a quiet café nearby. A waiter brought us coffee but I swept the cup and saucer aside, clearing the small table for my notes which I set out facing the pretty blonde opposite me.
“Ceci est à vous?”
“So you know something about the ‘Concilium Putus Visum’” she asked.
“Yes, and they have been chasing me for the last twenty-four hours.”
“Yes. As a matter of fact they are.”
She smiled warily. “I don’t believe you. I have plenty of experience with men like you trying to get my attention. It’s a nice trick but it won’t work.”
“I have never seen you before!” I said, indignantly.
“You might have seen me in the library?” She didn’t sound sure.
“Ordo Lupus. Does that name mean anything to you?” I saw her eyes widen just slightly at the sound of the name.
“Does it matter if it does?”
“Well actually I don’t know why I am trying to persuade you of my intentions. I am actually interested in what you know. Are you an historian?”
“Why try to persuade me then? You are wasting both your time and mine.” With that parting shot, and pushing back her glasses on her neat nose, she started to stand up.
“Huh!” I said to myself. Then a thought came into my head. “Piere Drang Clenn,” I said out loud, but she had passed behind me and left the café.
It’s no use.
It did seem an incredible coincidence that she was researching something so close to my own research. Just then I jumped.
“Spell the name please.”
I turned and there she was leaning over me, looking at my notes in front of me. I could smell a faint floral perfume, delicate but rather cloying. I spelled it out.
“Have you thought that it could be an anagram?” she said.
“No. Why do you say that?”
She pushed her glasses up her nose as she leaned over. “Oh, just a theory. Well. I have a few minutes. Let me try.” She took my pen as she sat down in the chair opposite me and started scribbling. As she tried various combinations, she asked, “What period?”
“Thirteenth Century.”
“Huh! Good,” she said as if she were a doctor and I had just told her I was taking the pills and feeling better.
“France?”