And Felicity did indeed sacrifice. She wore a cilicium, the medieval-style hair shirt that scratched and tore the flesh, beneath her loose-fitting clothes. She was remarkably thin and fine-boned, and she tied the instrument of torture tightly against her skin so that it did not show beneath her blouses. Felicity wore long sleeves at all times, so the scars from her cuttings were not visible. She had been taking a blade to her own flesh since she was in her early teens, carving images of crosses, thorns, and nails into her arms and legs until they bled and scabbed. Felicity knew that pain, suffering, and ultimately martyrdom were the greatest gifts one could give to God, and she could therefore not abide the knowledge of Maureen Paschal’s continued grace as a visionary. That woman was an aberration, a heretic and blasphemer who did not deserve the gifts that God had bestowed upon her. She abused them for her own personal gain, exploiting her faith for money and profit. She was worse than the Whore of Babylon, more wicked than Jezebel; she was the serpent Lilith who would destroy Eden.
Maureen Paschal had to be stopped. And if she could be—if the unworthy life of such a demoness could be successfully terminated—then perhaps Felicity would finally be able to fulfill her own destiny. It was clear to her that the Paschal whore had stolen her rightful place. If God would only allow one prophetess at a time to unlock the Book of Love, then eliminating this unworthy one was a necessity. As long as Maureen Paschal lived, the role was taken. But if she died, Felicity would then be able to step into that place, which was rightfully hers.
Felicity continued to rant. “She was the only one who could unlock the Book of Love, and you brought her there to do it. To prove once and for all that it was not what the heretics claimed it to be. And then . . . put an end to her.”
The old man found some strength in the truth as he pulled himself up in his chair. “But it is what the heretics claim it to be, my dear. It is everything we feared it could be, and more. And that, unfortunately, is our predicament.”
“All the more reason to end her.”
“Felicity, God has chosen her. Whether we like it or not, whether we understand his reasons, it does not matter. If God has chosen her, we must accept that.”
“You have lost all your wits along with your faith, Uncle!” Felicity looked as if she would strike him, and the old man recoiled as she leaned across the desk to make her point. “Don’t you see? It is a test for me. God is waiting for me to show that I am worthy of this place by eliminating the imposter, the usurper. This is a great treasure, to be his prophetess, to speak his truth as it is told to me by the Holy Virgin. Such truths cannot come through the corrupted channels of a fornicator. It is through my chastity and my suffering that the truth will be revealed, and we will save the sinners who would repent. And the unrepentant will die and be condemned to hell, as they must.”
Father Girolamo looked at his niece helplessly. He had attempted to explain the events in Chartres to her, but she did not care to listen. The leaders of the confraternity had known that Maureen would never cooperate with what was considered a radical fringe element within the Church—or more accurately, just outside the Church. This was why she had been lured into the crypt of Chartres Cathedral on false pretenses. The plan was to offer her a deal, to persuade her through financial and other means to come to their side and work for the confraternity. They wanted Maureen to recant, to turn her back on her research and deny her discovery of the importance of Mary Magdalene. Maureen had published her findings to a fascinated audience of millions, claiming as she did that Magdalene was not only the wife of Jesus but also his chosen successor and arguably the founder of Christianity following the crucifixion. Truly, Mary Magdalene was the apostle of the apostles, but to allow her such power—with evidence to support the claim—would diminish the authority of the Church. Maureen’s work challenged many long and deeply held traditions in Catholicism, including the refusal to allow women to become priests. But perhaps most controversial of all was Maureen’s assertion that sacred sexuality was not only practiced by Jesus and his lawfully wedded wife but that this tradition, known as hieros-gamos, was a cornerstone of early Christianity. For an institution that had required vows of celibacy from its clergy for a thousand years, this idea of sex as sacred and holy was completely offensive, if not blasphemous.
The confraternity was not going to allow an American upstart—and a female at that—to challenge their traditions without a fight. Deciding that the most effective course would be to get the heretic herself to recant, they set into motion their plan to entrap Maureen and to blackmail her into changing her story. They knew it was a long shot and were prepared to eliminate her if she did not comply with the terms.
But that was before Maureen Paschal was brought into the presence of the Book of Love, in the holy ground of the Chartres crypt on the summer solstice. That was before the book opened and revealed itself, surrounding Father Girolamo in the most exquisite blue light, infusing him with the perfect expression of love, a physical experience of what God felt like on earth. That was before Girolamo de Pazzi came to realize that the Book of Love was the true message of his Lord, and that to destroy the one woman who understood what it was and what it said would be a sin too great for him to commit.
“But why did you allow her to leave to tell this tale?” She gestured contemptuously at the book that lay between them. “That, Uncle, was not the plan. There is not a man—or woman—in the five hundred years of our people who has been as weak as you were in that moment. After all this time . . . ahhh!” She screamed her frustration, unable to put the words together through her rage. “It is inconceivable! And now look what she has done! Her blasphemy infects the world, and you along with it.”
It was a cruel blow. Father Girolamo de Pazzi had to be carried
out of the Chartres crypt on a stretcher after his encounter with Maureen Paschal and the Book of Love. That same night, he suffered a stroke from which he had been recovering for two years. His speech had returned, but he was feeble and partially paralyzed as a result of the ailment. He had no doubt that the stroke was God’s punishment, his way of warning Girolamo that there must be no further attacks on Maureen’s life. He had tried to explain this to Felicity and the other more rabid members of the confraternity, but his reasoning fell on the deaf ears of fanatics who appeared to be growing more rabid rather than less.
There had been two other members of the confraternity with him that night in the crypt, henchmen of the darkest order who had been chosen for their extremism. Both men were committed fanatics, like Felicity, and had been fully prepared to eliminate Maureen if necessary to protect the secrets of the Church—once they were certain of what those secrets were. But they, too, were changed by the events of that evening. The crueler of them had died in his sleep within a week of
the events. His heart merely stopped beating in his chest, despite his youth and physical health. The other man lived still, but he had simply ceased to function and had not uttered a word in two years. He was currently residing in an institution for the mentally handicapped in Switzerland.
No, those who were not present would never comprehend what happened that evening.
“You cannot understand, Felicity. But I beg you to leave this alone. It is . . . far bigger than you can imagine. And I fear for you, fear that you will be the one hurt if you attempt to harm the Paschal woman in any way. God does not wish her to be harmed.”
Felicity spat at her uncle, dark eyes glazing over as she channeled the holy Felicita’s ire. There were moments when the saint appeared to take possession of her namesake and speak through her with an unearthly fervor, as she did now.
“How dare you presume to tell me what God wants?” the ancient Felicita growled through her vessel at the cowering old man before her. “I hear him clearly. And I pray that God forgives you for your weakness and for your evil intent. Only a devil would try to stop me from carrying out an ultimate example of sacrifice for the extreme glory of our Lord!”
Father Girolam
o de Pazzi sat back in his chair, exhausted and deflated by the encounter. His niece appeared to have taken possession of her own body once more, though her eyes were still feverish. Felicity grabbed the offending book from his desk and turned to storm out as he called out weakly after her.
“What will you do now, Felicity?”
She turned to face him one final time, a small, satisfied smile on her lips.
“I have an appearance tonight, Uncle. Don’t tell me you are so feeble you have forgotten. And I have no doubt that Our Lady will have much to say about this fornicator who would commit blasphemy in the name of her chaste and holy son.” Felicita spat on the book she held in her hand. “And so I shall ensure that the confraternity knows full well who the enemy is.”
He nodded sadly, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop what was about to happen.
“And then? Where will you go then?”
“Florence.”
“Why Florence?”
“Savonarola,” she said first, knowing he would understand that. Her uncle had been named after their infamous ancestor, after all. His full given name was Girolamo Savonarola de Pazzi. It was a name that, until his grand failure of two years ago, he had lived up to brilliantly.
“And because Destino is there.” She hissed his name with a venom that she normally saved for her red-haired American nemesis. Destino had been the enemy of the confraternity for centuries, and she had a special desire to stop him as well. However, putting an end to the Paschal creature once and for all would be the greatest blow to Destino, so that remained her primary focus. Eliminating Maureen would destroy everything Destino had ever hoped to build.
And as Felicity turned and stomped out without a glance back, Father Girolamo watched her leave with more trepidation than he had ever felt in his long and troubled life.
Someone would soon die. He had no doubt of that. He just wasn’t entirely sure who it would be—or at this stage, who he wished it to be.
The villa of Careggi, outskirts of Florence
July 4, 1442
COSIMO DE’ MEDICI paced in anticipation of the arrival of his esteemed guest. The coming of René d’ Anjou to Florence was an affair of state, and the members of that republic’s council, the Signoria, had been preparing for months. There were political preparations to be sure: René was extremely popular in France, where he held a number of exalted titles, each bearing witness to the tremendous power he could wield when necessary. He was the duke of Provence and the titular king of both Naples and Jerusalem—all territories that would be very valuable to have in alliance should the Florentine republic require foreign aid in times of crisis. The military power of Naples, specifically, was of utmost importance in Italian alliances.
Yet for all his benevolent reputation, and that he was known as “Good King René,” those were honors bestowed by his French countrymen. Florentines were, by nature, skeptical of all outsiders, but they were particularly wary of the acquisitive hands of French nobility. The fact that Naples was in French hands was grating enough on many Italians, and yet Florentines also realized that it could have been worse: the more politically aggressive and spiritually restrictive Aragon family from Spain was also vying for control of Naples. At least King René was a charming young man of education, taste, and progressive humanist ideals, all qualities that the cultured people of Florence held in high regard. Still, handling the multititled nobleman would require expert diplomacy and negotiating tactics.
The political potentials and detriments of an alliance with Good King René were argued in the Signoria at the same time that the coffers were opened to create a lavish spectacle of welcome worthy of the Republic of Florence. Cosimo de’ Medici observed all of it but did little to participate in the public and political machinations. He was the most powerful and influential man in the Republic of Florence, but his interest in René d’Anjou was entirely personal—and gravely secret. Regardless of the outcome of the grand political posturing that would occur over the next weeks, Cosimo knew that René would never fail him if he ever truly needed him. Their meeting today in the privacy of the Medici villa of Careggi, beyond the watchful eyes that lurked within the city walls, would attest to that. While King René’s official entrance and reception into Florence would occur ten days later, he had entered the region today under heavy disguise on a secret mission. It was a visit that was completely unknown to the citizens of Florence, a meeting that would have no witnesses save the chosen few and the ancient stones that formed the walls of Cosimo’s elegant retreat.
“Cousin! It is a joy to reunite with you.” The high-ranking French nobleman, known for his warmth, embraced Cosimo heartily once the door was safely closed behind them.
Cosimo smiled broadly at René’s use of the familial greeting, and returned it. “The joy is all mine, cousin. Thank you for coming.”
Any Florentine observing this meeting would have been deeply perplexed. René d’Anjou carried the highest royal French pedigree; he was the son of the two most pristine royal bloodlines in Europe, the French Angevin dynasty and the Spanish Aragonese, and the holder of multiple hereditary titles. Conversely, Cosimo de’ Medici was a commoner, one of the most wealthy and influential commoners in all Europe, but from a merchant class all the same. How a prince of these exalted and elitist dynasties came to call the Italian banker his cousin was a secret worth more than gold, a secret of life and death for all involved.
René recounted his recent journey as Cosimo ushered him into the elegant studiolo. The doors to his private library were opened only to the most intimate and trusted friends and family members. As was traditional in many wealthy Florentine families, even wives were not allowed within the walls of their husband’s private studios. Cosimo had kept this tradition, even through his long marriage to a woman he loved, and his secrets were well contained within these walls.
“I have just come from Sansepolcro. I am told that you have secured that territory completely?”
Cosimo nodded. He had purchased Borgo Sansepolcro to add it to Florentine territories in Tuscany, yet he had used private Medici money to do so. This was not merely a strategic political purchase for Florence. It was a personal one. The medieval walled city, established in the tenth century, was sacred ground for the Medici as it had been the dwelling place of the Magi for five hundred years.
“How is our beloved Master? Is he on his way?” Cosimo asked.
“Fra Francesco is well and is not so far behind me. It is astonishing to see that he has not changed a bit since I was a boy.”
Cosimo smiled knowingly before replying; the crooked smile transformed his often serious and sardonic face to a landscape where wit and understanding shared space. Memories of their Master and the sacred time spent with him always made him smile. The old man known as Fra Francesco had taught both of these men and instilled in them the understanding that they were cousins of a very ancient blood and spirit. Fra Francesco was entirely unique. He was the gentle yet formidable Master of an ancient society to which both men had pledged fealty until death, the Order of the Holy Sepulcher. The Order and its teachings were firmly ensconced just a day’s ride from Florence in the tiny walled city that shared its name and was now a Medici possession: Sansepolcro.
“I dare say he will never change, as you well know,” Cosimo responded. “But I am grateful that you have agreed to come on this, the specified date. There is much to discuss, and to plan for.”
“How could I refuse? This date is written in the stars, and we must ensure that we honor it appropriately. It is a matter of great excitement for everyone in the Order, and I will do my duty as it has been decided. When is this child destined to arrive?”
“We have assembled all the forecasts from the Magi, with Fra Francesco’s counsel. They all agree that the stars clearly indicate 1449 because of the positioning of Mars in Pisces that occurs that year. If properly timed, he will be born on the first day of January, so he can then be baptized five days later on the Feast of the Epipha
ny. It will require great planning, but as you know, it has been done before with success. And this time . . . we must succeed exactly. Such a birth will give him the stellar influences that satisfy the prophecy most completely. This is why we must begin preparation now, far in advance, to ensure our success. It may take several years to find the perfect woman to mother this child.”
No one knew the power of this ancient foretelling more personally than René d’Anjou. He was the reigning Poet Prince, the golden child recognized by the Order for his divine birth and destiny. His path had been predetermined by his bloodline and birth date, and he had done his best to fulfill it. Cosimo’s reference to “succeeding exactly this time” caused René to flinch a little. It was a reference to his own birth, which had missed the timing when he arrived two weeks too late. While the position of the stars at René’s birth was still in keeping with the prophecy, he had known from his earliest days that he would always be a bit of a disappointment. Yes, he was a Poet Prince. But he was not the Poet Prince. And this unfortunate aspect of his birth haunted him each time he made an error or was seen to fall short in his duties to the Order and their divine mission.
René closed his eyes and recited the prophecy of the Poet Prince, which had colored his life in shades of extreme light and dark since his own birth had been predicted by the Magi:
The Son of Man shall choose
when the time returns for the Poet Prince.
He who is a spirit of earth and water born
within the complex realm of the sea goat
The Poet Prince Page 5