Tomorrow Vittoria Buondelmonti was going to reveal the identity of her child’s father to the international press. Why she had decided to do this now was unclear. But as Maureen clicked around the networks to see if anything more interesting or important was happening in the world, she found that Vittoria and her love child were the hot topic on all the morning shows. Maureen hit the off button on the remote with a grunt.
She forgot all about Vittoria’s paternity drama as her cell phone beeped with a text message response to her question.
I AM A FRIEND OF DESTINO. AND BERENGER.
I WILL SEE YOU TONIGHT.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” she said out loud. Maureen had been quoting Lewis Carroll often these days, because she felt she had fallen down the rabbit hole herself, perhaps never to return to reality again. Reality, it seemed, was a thing of the past. She wasn’t sure that she would ever get used to the surreal turns that her life had taken.
The journey had begun a few years earlier when Maureen first met Bérenger Sinclair, who introduced her to the mysterious world of heretics and history that he presided over in the southwest of France from his ancestral home. Her life had exploded when she discovered an ancient manuscript in a French village called Arques, a legendary gospel written in the hand of the apostle Mary Magdalene herself. While others had been searching for this document for nearly two thousand years, many believed it had been Maureen’s sole destiny to find it. Within this world of hidden Christian history, which was unfolding for Maureen as she delved deeper into the secret societies of Europe, were a series of prophecies that had been passed down for countless generations. The prophecy of the Expected One told of a woman who would rediscover the true, unedited teachings of Jesus and his descendants and would share these with the world when the time was right.
Maureen was the Expected One.
It was a dizzying, electrifying, and often perilous experience. Maureen’s discovery of what was now known as the Arques gospel had led her to write her first international best seller about the legacy of Mary Magdalene. The manuscript was an explosive document that alleged that Magdalene was legally married to Jesus and was the mother of his children. But perhaps the most important revelation within was not about blood or marriage but rather about a spiritual legacy. The Arques Gospel of Mary Magdalene proclaimed that she was the chosen successor of Jesus, the apostle to whom he entrusted his most sacred teachings. And before his death on the cross, Jesus had given Mary Magdalene a manuscript of his own. He called it the Book of Love.
That Jesus had written a gospel in his own hand was the most controversial revelation that Maureen had ever stumbled upon. How was it possible that Jesus had written his own book, with his teachings indisputably preserved in his own hand, and yet no one had ever heard of such a thing? As she researched this question, Maureen discovered that the Book of Love was so controversial, so earth-shattering, that it was necessarily kept secret by those who revered it—and by those who despised it. Her search for the book took her through Inquisition records and deep into the histories of France and Italy. Maureen discovered that a secret society called the Order of the Holy Sepulcher had protected the Book of Love and those who were sworn to preserve the lost gospel of Jesus Christ and teach from it. It was her discovery of this shadowy Order—which still existed today—that had led her to discover Matilda of Canossa, a Tuscan countess who had lived in the eleventh century.
Matilda was a child of this secret legacy. Born into the prophecy of the Expected One at the vernal equinox, she possessed the same powers of prophecy and vision that had haunted Maureen since her childhood. And Matilda was raised on the heretical message of the Book of Love. She was the devoted keeper of a version of this gospel, a copy made in the first century by the apostle Philip and then brought to Italy. To Matilda and subsequent generations of heretical Italians, the gospel was known as the Libro Rosso—the Red Book. The Libro Rosso also contained a series of prophecies passed down through the women of the bloodline, as well as their personal histories and lineage documents. The Libro Rosso, with its spiritual teachings of love and its prophecies for mankind, its preservation of the dynastic details of the bloodline descendants of Jesus, was arguably the most valuable book in human history. Matilda had once possessed it, and she used it to change the world.
While she researched Matilda, there were times when Maureen felt that they were blending into the same person. She felt Matilda’s pain and joy, observed her life in vivid detail as she wrote. It was almost as if she were writing her own memoirs, remembering intimate moments of her deepest loves and closest friendships, understanding Matilda’s most private longings and fears firsthand. Their consciousness and memories had somehow combined, merged to become one, as Maureen wrote.
And it was not the first time she had experienced that feeling.
Maureen had the same exhilarating yet troubling experience while writing about Mary Magdalene in her first book. Viewing the first century through Magdalene’s eyes had nearly driven Maureen to the edge of sanity. She was certainly not claiming anything as grandiose as having walked in Mary Magdalene’s exalted sandals in a past life. No, what she experienced was something very different, some strange yet magical gift of storytelling that had been passed down to women in her lineage for thousands of years. She understood it as a type of genetic memory, a collective consciousness that existed in the DNA of these women to whom she was so blessed to be connected, a memory that she could tap into. As such, it was exalted in its own unique way. It made the passage of time simply not matter, as if all periods could be accessed simultaneously, as if they were happening all at once.
It was a miracle, and yet it was a terrible beauty at the same time, a daunting responsibility. She could not curse the experience, God-given as it appeared to be, but she had spent the better part of the last four years trying to understand it all. Maureen hesitated to discuss this with anyone but Bérenger, as he alone understood it—and everything about her—perfectly. In this way she had discovered that he was her one true soul mate, the other half of her heart and spirit, and there was an effortlessness in their communication that she still marveled at and completely cherished. Bérenger had become her ultimate sanctuary in a world that could not understand her gift and therefore often sought to destroy it.
Matilda of Canossa had obsessed Maureen for the better part of the last two years, possessing her first when Maureen read the autobiography of the controversial countess, and then as she wrote her latest book in honor of this remarkable woman. The Time Returns: The Legacy of the Book of Love detailed Matilda’s adventures and accomplishments. Today, her birthday, was the official release date for the North American edition, which was what had brought Maureen to New York. There was a launch party tonight at the Cloisters, the medieval department of the Met, in honor of Maureen and Matilda.
Reigning over the north end of Manhattan with unequaled views of the Hudson, the Cloisters is the elegant uptown sister of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Its stunning display of art and architecture from medieval Europe is preserved in a magnificent and unique building, one created through the use of authentic architectural elements imported from medieval French monasteries. Though there are many treasures to be viewed among the nearly five thousand artifacts on display in the Cloisters, the unparalleled attraction was the unicorn tapestries. The seven magnificent wall hangings, created in Flanders during the Renaissance, depict in vivid details the story of a determined hunt—and ultimately the brutal killing—of a majestic unicorn.
Maureen had seen replicas of these tapestries while in France, when she first met with the enigmatic spiritual teacher known only as Destino at the headquarters of the Order of the Holy Sepulcher. For the Order, the unicorn was a symbol of the pure teachings of Jesus Christ as passed down to his descendants through the Book of Love. The Killing of the Unicorn series was a type of textbook for the Order, a particularly beautiful teaching manual woven in woolen threads to illustrate the terrible tragedy tha
t occurs when pure beauty is destroyed and truth is lost. When writing the truth in plain language was heresy and meant certain death, the Order found other means of communicating through symbols and secrets—for those with eyes to see and ears to hear. The Killing of the Unicorn represented the destruction of the authentic teachings of Jesus, the Way of Love, as told through symbolism.
Maureen took some time to view the exquisite Cloisters tapestries before stepping in to her public duties as the guest of honor for the launch party.
Her thought, as she was collected by her publicist and brought back to the reality of the work she had to do this night, was that this series of priceless, exquisite tapestries was a tragic reminder that we live in a reality where love is not honored as it should be—and men are all too inclined to kill unicorns.
Maureen sensed her before she saw her. It was part of her life, the strange intuition that had saved her on so many occasions. The shiver that caught her attention as she was signing a book for an avid reader alerted her that something significant was about to happen.
The line of people waiting for Maureen’s signature wrapped through the cloister and through the stunning gardens, which contained the same flora and fauna depicted within the unicorn tapestries. Beyond the queue, she saw the woman who was different from the rest.
Easily six feet tall before donning four-inch stilettos, the woman was stunning, a goddess incarnate. She walked with the grace and authority of one who knew that the entire world stopped and stared as she approached—always had, always would. Sleek black hair hung to her waist and framed a face of angular perfection. Perfectly lined amber-colored cat’s eyes stared at Maureen across the room, unblinking, as she approached.
Maureen caught her breath as she recognized the woman who was the current darling of the media. Vittoria Buondelmonti glided regally past the gawking commoners who waited in line for Maureen’s autograph. Everyone recognized this celebrity of the moment, and several people dared to photograph her with their cell phones. Vittoria ignored them all, and with a flourish she presented Maureen with a large manila envelope. Her Italian accent dripped like honey from her words.
“Happy birthday. Maureen. Here is the gift I promised you. But I recommend you do not open it until you are alone later.”
Maureen saw that the envelope was sealed with heavy tape. She couldn’t open it now without a knife or scissors, although she was filled with curiosity about it. Her question was inspired by the earlier text message: “You are a friend of Destino? And of Bérenger?”
“Of course. I know them both very well. They will find this gift as interesting as you will.” She gestured with her elegant, long arms to the queue. “Congratulations on all of your success. Bérenger tells me you are . . . the real thing.” She sniffed at this, as if to indicate her skepticism, before pivoting perfectly to make her exit. “Buona sera and buon compleanno,” she tossed over her shoulder as she slinked toward the door without ever looking back.
The envelope screamed at Maureen to open it for the two excruciating hours that she remained in her place to sign books and talk to readers. It was impossible not to be distracted by what the contents might represent. Vittoria hadn’t exactly been warm or sincere with her birthday wishes, and yet she claimed friendship with both Bérenger, the love of her life, and Destino, her trusted teacher.
Once the final book had been signed, Maureen rushed to the awaiting Town Car, which would take her back to Fifth Avenue. She used the nail scissors in her purse to cut open the top of the envelope. Carefully she extracted what appeared to be a doubled-up newspaper. She unfolded it to discover that it was an advance copy of a British tabloid, due to go on sale in the morning, judging by the date. The headline screamed:
Vittoria Declares: Sinclair Oil Heir Is the Father of My Baby!
A photograph splashed across the remainder of the front page. It depicted Vittoria, wrapped in the arms of Bérenger Sinclair.
“It’s a lie, Maureen.”
Maureen tried not to cry over the transatlantic connection as she explained the deeply upsetting events of her birthday to Bérenger. He denied everything.
“I know Vittoria, but I did not sleep with her. And you may not believe this, but I have no desire to do so. I love you. I want to be with you.”
Maureen sighed, still holding back the tears. “That may be true now. But we were separated for a long time . . .”
“We were separated because you requested it. I gave you that space—and waited for you.”
Maureen couldn’t argue that point. She had been the stubborn one, determined to keep Bérenger at a safe distance in the early days of their relationship. Then, she was still afraid of the powerful bond that was building between them. It threatened to overwhelm her, and she bolted. They were apart for almost a year.
“The timing is perfect in terms of the age of that child,” she continued. “He would have been conceived when you and I were separated.”
Bérenger snapped with the stress, more than he meant to. This revelation of Vittoria’s had blindsided him and he was still reeling from the shock. “You are so ready to condemn me over this, even though I am telling you as emphatically as I can that Vittoria means nothing to me and never will. You are the only woman in the world for me. The love of my life. My heart and soul.”
“What about the photos on the cover of the News of the World? And the Daily Mail?”
Bérenger answered with exaggerated patience. “First of all, there is only one photo, and I am hugging her in it. I am not having sex with her. It was taken in Cannes in front of about five hundred people. I was there with my brother representing the family’s interests in an independent film about Scotland’s mystical heritage. Vittoria was there too; our families are long acquainted. She’s bloodline.”
“She’s what?”
“Didn’t you know? Vittoria is a bloodline princess. Her mother is an Austrian baroness, from the Hapsburg lineage. The baroness was the one who secured my access to the museum in Austria for my research on the Spear of Destiny. Her father is of the Buondelmonti, an ancient and very wealthy family, originally from Tuscany. Vittoria and I have run in the same esoteric and social circles in Europe.”
His explanation just made things worse. Much worse. Not only was Vittoria one of the world’s most beautiful women, she was also the daughter of a fascinating noble heritage. Both sides of her family belonged to bloodlines that claimed descent from the union between Jesus and Mary Magdalene. Not incidentally, these families—including the Sinclairs—were some of the wealthiest and most influential in the world. Bérenger and Vittoria had more in common than not. The fact made Maureen feel like a common outsider.
“Vittoria claims to know Destino.” It was gut-wrenching to think that this woman had a claim on Maureen’s beloved teacher too.
“That’s entirely possible. I didn’t know about Destino when I last saw her, so I can’t tell you that. Maureen, listen to me. I have had no contact with Vittoria since that photo was taken, which leaves us with several important questions.”
“Which are?”
“Why is she lying about this? And why did she make such a show out of coming personally to you?” Bérenger paused for a moment, and Maureen could hear him breathe heavily as he thought about it. He continued.
“I don’t know the answer to either of those questions, but I swear to you, I will find them as soon as I can. And I am so sorry that you have been dragged into this. But in the meantime, I need you to believe in me. I love you. And I’m not going to let anything come between us, and I pray that you won’t either.”
“Okay.” Maureen whispered the weak reply. She was exhausted and hurt by the events of her birthday and needed time to think. The following afternoon on the airplane, she would torment herself all the way across the Atlantic with possible scenarios, most which featured the love of her life entangled in the impossibly long legs of the world’s most sultry supermodel.
Headquarters of the Confraternity of the
Holy Apparition
Vatican City
present day
FELICITY DE PAZZI gritted her teeth as she drove the sharpened nail deeper into her left palm. It was bleeding more profusely now, which would give her the dried crust and the scabbing she would need tonight. Timing was everything with the stigmata. They required a few hours to scab over, so that the wounds would bleed anew when she ripped them open during her public appearance. The left hand would need an hour or so before she could wrap it and begin the process of impalement on the right hand.
Felicity saw the first traces of stigmata when she was in school back in England. She had been having visions more regularly, falling to the ground in ecstasies when the Holy Spirit would take over her body.
The headmistress, however, was neither convinced nor amused by
what she referred to as Felicity’s fits. It was after she had been sent to counseling and was being threatened with expulsion that the stigmata first made themselves known.
On the day that the bloody wounds began to appear in Felicity’s palms, she wept with the joy of it. Finally, here was physical proof that she was born to be God’s instrument. Everyone would be forced to believe her now; how could they deny it? It was there for anyone with eyes.
The Poet Prince Page 10