47
Penitence, Penitence!
‘ . . . and, as the saying goes, the dead to the grave and the living to the loaf.’
Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote
Rennes-le-Château, 18 January, 1915
The snow fell over the mountains in icy sheets, making the promenade dangerously glassy. Even so, Madame Dénarnaud insisted on wheeling the body of the Abbé Saunière to the greenhouse herself, so as to be alone with him one last time.
She was dressed in black silk. It had cost a fine fortune but it was the latest fashion in funerary wear from Paris. After all, people expected it. They would soon be arriving from every place to see the body and they would leave after taking a tassel from his gown, as was the custom – as if those old clothes had been impregnated with power. She smiled at the thought of it now – if only they knew.
She could hear the bell-ringer’s son digging the grave in the cemetery, cursing the frozen ground. Yesterday, before the abbé had taken his last torturous breath, Abbé Rivière of Espéraza had come to hear Saunière’s confession, but upon hearing it his face had paled and he had refused to give the abbé the prepared wafers and wine. It had delighted her to see the villagers’ faces when they heard of it. They believed that Saunière had whispered something diabolical to the priest, but she knew Saunière had said nothing into that hairy ear – because he knew nothing. Yes, that greedy priest from Espéraza had been hoping to hear, in Saunière’s confession, how he had come by his fortune. When the confession was not forthcoming he decided to take his revenge on Saunière by withholding the sacrament. In the end, Madame Dénarnaud had given it to him herself, in secret.
Well, she thought, let them all imagine that Saunière was the mastermind of everything: the refurbishment of the church; the building of the villa and the tower, the greenhouse and the gardens. As long as this was what they believed, she could continue with her work unnoticed.
In truth, her life had been filled with predestined events: at birth, she had been accepted into that section of the Grand Orient created especially for women; at the age of seven, her mother, also a member of the Lodge, had taken her to Toulouse to be initiated; and as a young woman, she was schooled to be the next Madame Blavatsky, the celebrated Russian theosophist. But she did not allow herself to become like that woman, who had been used by various groups for their own ends. She had decided long ago that she would do as she pleased; she would owe allegiance to no group!
In the beginning her powers had been crude and unsophisticated. Occasionally she would lapse into a trance in which disembodied spirits spoke through her; sometimes she saw visions of future events; and at other times she would write long sentences, pages and pages of them, automatically. But these childhood aptitudes had graduated, under expert instruction, into powers that were polished and chillingly exact. Moreover, she was a handsome woman, possessed of the dark good looks of her heretic ancestors, and intelligent enough to use them to enhance her talents. These, combined with her knowledge of the lesser magic of perfume-blending had taken her far.
Yes, she had been much admired by various suitors, and there had been many marriage proposals, but she had ignored them with a cold disdain. The ignorant, miscreant villagers of Rennes-le-Château had thought her a strange girl to pass up such advantages, choosing instead to remain a poor shepherdess, who wanted nothing more than to tend her family’s little herd of goats or to work occasionally in the hat factory at Espéraza. They did not know that she was waiting for her time to come.
The day she and her mother had spied the disaffected Saunière toiling over the road to their village with his bags in his hands, dressed in his black cassock and hat, looking like a man who has been deprived of his birthright, they knew they had found their priest. Immediately Abbé Boudet, a member of their order, was informed and the entire affair was set into motion.
Saunière’s arrogance had made him a willing servant, but they could not have known the extent of his incautious nature, or how obsessed he would become with finding the missing treasure for himself. His task had been merely to find the parchment and leave clues in his church for those who would follow, but his tongue was loose.
She bent down to look at the corpse’s face. It still bore some resemblance to Saunière: the dimpled chin, the shock of dark hair, the brooding mouth. He never knew the true goal of the secret and yet he had been so full of his own importance! She wiped away some fluid from his shrivelled lips. And to think he had imagined himself an initiate! His journey to England had made him powerful, but it had been on her behalf and for another purpose entirely.
No, it had been a preparation for her task. For she had met the chosen initiate only two years before in Vienna, where at the time he had been undergoing instruction by members of the Thule Gesellschaft. They had seen in the young man called Adolf Hitler the perfect combination of stupidity and fervour, an empty vessel for the future impregnation of the seed of Sorat. Oh, it was exciting and difficult and frustrating to anticipate, to wait. But in the cards she had seen the one who would come to unlock the secret whereabouts of the key, the one destined to be tenet – and nothing could be accomplished without him. She would know him by his willingness to enter Hell. A question put to all true initiates.
She adjusted the gown on Saunière’s shoulders, smoothing her hands over it and picking off some stray lint. She wondered what the villagers would say when they found out that their illustrious priest had died a pauper, his only income his priestly stipend. That the Villa Bethany, the Tour Magdala; everything had always belonged to her? Even now his spirit had joined the circle of those whose spirits would be used by the initiate – the circle of those who had willingly chosen to die and even those who were murdered to cleanse the world of riffraff. It had not taken much to convince Saunière to sell his soul and to join that circle in return for eternal life. They had enacted the ritual of excarnation, of suicide, in the crypt of the dames using the secret of sator, arepo, tenet, opera, rotas. It had been accomplished! The stroke had hit him in a matter of days. They always suffered strokes – so that way the spirit left the body gradually . . . excruciatingly. She didn’t know how many had partaken of the bread and wine blessed by Satan to join the circle of the undead but she knew they were countless. Saunière was only one among many! How many masses for the dead had he conducted himself, using those wafers, trapping the unwary in that realm of midday, between life and death? She could feel his agonised presence nearby. Immortality has its price. Penitence!
People were arriving. She could see them in their finery, in their silks and furs and top hats, threading through the snow-covered garden. She looked down at her wrist, the snake entwining the anchor was showing slightly and she adjusted her lace-edged sleeve over it and donned the mask of the grieving housekeeper. With her heart full of an imminent thrill, she left the conservatory to greet them.
48
Lady in Waiting
‘What was the fair lady’s game? What did she really want?’
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, ‘The Adventure of the Second Stain’
Maison de Cros, Bugarach, 1938
‘You certainly make it hard for me to keep you out of trouble, Otto Rahn!’
It was Eva! She was busy cutting their bindings with his penknife. He coughed and his lungs burst into screams of pain. When they were loose she herded them without a word to an opening and they stooped to enter what seemed to be a low storeroom. After negotiating their way through boxes and barrels and bric-a-brac, she directed them on their knees through a small hatch into what became a low tunnel.
‘Keep moving, don’t stop, it leads outside!’ she called out to them from behind.
They proceeded for a time, coughing and wheezing and stumbling in the darkness. Here the air was clear and earthy, and eventually Rahn came to some stone steps that led upwards to the garden. By instinct and without thought, he staggered as far as he could from the conflagration before throwing himself down. The others followed a
nd the four of them sat, breathing fresh air into their tortured lungs, coughing and spitting. He could hear Deodat vomiting and coughing. The sleet came down all around them and the ground was wet. Above, the clouded firmament was untouched by this human madness. There was lightning in the far reaches and he could tell the moon was rising behind it.
In the meantime the inferno had progressed. The roof caught alight and the thirteenth-century monastery that had survived revolutions and purges, ruin and desecration, now began its last song as the roof rafters caved in, one after the other, sending clouds of sparks into the cold air.
Eva was sitting beside him, wiping her face. She was a little breathless but otherwise unhurt, and even seemed exhilarated. ‘I once saw a fire like this,’ she said wistfully, sadly. ‘It burnt the most beautiful building in the world, my building! The twisted metal of the musical instruments created the most wondrous colours and one could hear it like music whistling in the flames. Isn’t it interesting?’ She looked at him, coming out of her contemplation, her eyes still distant but only for a moment. ‘Are you alright?’
‘You mean, aside from my manly ego? Yes, I’ll be fine, but you know, I was the one who was supposed to save the damsel from the fire of the dragon – not the other way around.’
‘Don’t worry, in saving you I am also saving myself – remember?’ Rahn smiled a little.
‘How did we get out?’ Deodat said, panting.
‘All medieval monasteries have at least one underground passage leading to the outside. Elementary!’ she said to him.
‘Now you’re sounding like me!’ Deodat smiled weakly.
‘What are you doing here anyway?’ Rahn asked. ‘I thought you would be halfway to Italy by now.’
‘Italy? Why would you think that? No, I was waiting for you to wake up.’ But he didn’t have time to ask her what she meant because she stood. ‘Come on – we have to leave before the fire brigade arrives with the gendarmes . . .’
‘Did you see anyone?’ Rahn stood with his head light and his legs weak.
‘Yes. Three men. I think they’re going to the hermitage we went to that day.’
‘The hermitage of Galamus?’ Deodat said. ‘How do you know that?’
‘Just a hunch.’
Rahn frowned. ‘You and your hunches.’
‘We have to follow them,’ Deodat made a grab for Rahn’s arm and Rahn helped him up. Rahn was too exhausted to argue.
In a moment all four of them had left the Maison de Cros’s sacrificial burning behind them and Eva was leading them to where she’d hidden the auto-car. Inside the Peugeot, Eva’s single-minded profile was lit up by the reflection of the headlamps and this gave her, to Rahn’s mind, an otherworldly look. Once again she exuded a detachment that seemed unnatural.
‘How do you feel?’ Rahn asked Deodat, who was coughing and wheezing in the back seat beside the traitor La Dame.
‘My chest feels like I’ve been breathing in hot peppers but otherwise I’ll be fine.’
Rahn passed a hand over his face full of cuts. He could smell smoke in his hair. ‘You never mentioned what made you come back for us, Mademoiselle Fleury,’ he said.
She looked at him a moment; her darkling eyes staring out from that pale face were as deep as the well of Democritus. She was remarkably beautiful, almost too beautiful to be real He fancied, in his exhausted state, that she was Joan of Arc: a mighty female warrior, her eyes replete with the visions of archangels and her heart full of strange tempers.
She shrugged.
She’s an enigma!
‘You followed us?’ Rahn said.
‘Yes . . .’
‘Well . . . this entire hunt’s been for nothing anyway. All we’ve managed to do is to lead them to it,’ Rahn’s words tasted sour.
‘Do you mean the Cathar treasure – the key?’ Eva asked, serenely, as if it didn’t matter.
‘Yes, it’s a book. Cros had always kept it at Bugarach in plain sight. But the English Lodges have it now – it’s all over!’
‘No, they don’t,’ she said.
Rahn blinked. ‘What?’
‘When those men left the house there were others outside waiting for them.’
‘Others?’ It was the traitor, La Dame, speaking now, and it irritated Rahn.
‘They looked like priests, but they were carrying guns. Two large men came out first and they were shot immediately, a third man exchanged shots with them but in the end he was wounded. They bundled him into the Citroën at gun point and took off,’ Eva said, rounding a corner too fast for Rahn’s liking.
‘Where were you?’
‘I was hiding in the bushes.’
Deodat grabbed the back of Rahn’s seat and sat forward.
‘We’ve got to get it from them, Rahn!’ he said.
La Dame cleared his throat. ‘I guess this is where my character exits then – stage left. I’ve been written out of the film, I’m afraid,’ he announced. ‘Look, this has always been your script, Rahn. You’re the leading man and I’m just the greatest dolt in the world. I’ve always had the bit parts and I’m afraid I’ve come to realise that’s all I’m cut out for. So, mademoiselle, if you would be so kind as to drop me off at the next town I’ll catch a ride to back to Couiza and from there I’ll find my way home. I’m going to lay low for a while . . . in the mountains. You know where I live, Rahn, if you should ever trust me again, I’d love you to come for a visit. I shall wish you a fair adventure, “O dear Rahn, perpetual discoverer of the antipodes, torch of the world, eye of Heaven, sweet stimulator of the water-coolers!”’
‘Oh shut up, La Dame! Quoting Sancho won’t get you out of this one. Trust you? You?’ Rahn said, glowing with rage. ‘You’re nothing but a great scoundrel, dunderhead, and thief all in one! Why should I ever trust you again?’
La Dame frowned, obviously hurt. ‘Now, Rahn, don’t say things you’ll regret. Remember, I saved your life!’
‘You’re a dirty, doublecrossing rat! You wanted the job at Oxford!’ he spat, relishing his anger now.
‘That’s offensive! That was just an added bonus,’ La Dame said, with indignation.
‘Let me be precise. You’re a cowardly, suppurating, dirty, doublecrossing rat – and a bastard!’
‘Now you’ve gone too far, Rahn. You’ve wounded my pride.’
Rahn almost expected him to shout, ‘Pistols at dawn!’
Instead, La Dame sighed, and his voice suddenly sounded full of remorse. ‘You’re just anxious – I understand.’
‘Anxious? Why should I be anxious?’ Rahn said, sarcastically. ‘There are secret societies on our tail: some trying to burn us alive in car trunks; others trying burn us alive in cellars; some have a preference for shooting us to pieces; and others find it more amusing to drown us in crypts. I’ve been manipulated, lied to, messed about! I’ve got cuts and bruises everywhere. I haven’t slept in days, there’s a bee flying about in my head and the Eiffel Tower is snowed under! And what has all of it achieved? I’ve managed to lead evil-minded madmen to a secret that was elaborately safeguarded and hidden for centuries and now, to exonerate myself, I have to walk into the middle of a conventicle of black magicians to stop them from conjuring the evil spirit Sorat – who makes Satan look like a retarded demi-god – where I will most likely end up suffering moral and spiritual ruination. Or at best a grievous, agonising, living death for all eternity. Anxious? Yes, I’ll admit I’m a little anxious. But I’d say no more anxious than this insane story demands!’ Rahn finished, loudly.
‘That’s because, my dear Rahn,’ La Dame countered, meekly, ‘you’re the hero of the script, I realise that now. The one prepared to march into Hell for Heaven’s sake! And I’m, well, I told you, I’m a coward, I have no ribs to bear Hell and I freely admit it! Even when I’m holding a gun, the truth is, the gun is holding me. I couldn’t even load the damned thing for fear it might go off and shoot something unintended. I’d be no good to you at all, you see? Better to be rid of me.’ He sat forward. �
�When all this is over we’ll break open that numbered bottle I’ve kept hidden away for a special occasion and we’ll have a jolly laugh.’
‘You know where you can shove your numbered bottle and your jolly laugh, La Dame,’ he said testily, ‘where it’s dark and the temperature’s stable!’
‘Rahn! There’s a lady present!’ La Dame cried, shocked.
Rahn gave him a sidewise glance. ‘Shut up before I punch you again and break your nose twice.’
La Dame winced. Deflated and consumed by guilt, he said nothing more.
When they came to the little hamlet, Eva stopped in a small lay-by to let La Dame out.
As they sped off, Rahn caught sight of La Dame’s pathetic form in the rear-view mirror. He stood by the side of the road like an abandoned dog looking for a good home. Rahn felt a sudden remorse. His temper had ebbed and he was already missing La Dame. He realised once again that he was no different to his friend and moreover he was at fault: La Dame was right, had he not mentioned the skeleton key in his book, had he not gone to that apartment in Berlin, none of this would have happened. He sighed, fighting a desire to tell Eva to turn back to get him. La Dame was better off staying away from all this. He had wounds to nurse and a life to live. He was right. Rahn was the one who had to walk into Hell.
‘I don’t know . . .’ Deodat said, wrenching him from his painful thoughts.
‘What is it?’
‘At that moment in the church, when La Dame called out with the revolver in his hands, something occurred to me. Cros was a good chess player. He always found a way to create weaknesses in his opponent’s position in two directions. He said it took at least two weaknesses to win a chess game, because an opponent couldn’t be in two places at the same time.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Rahn said.
‘Two places, Rahn. The clever player creates a diversion to allow something else to go unnoticed. He even risks losing a valued piece to secure victory. Cros sent us in search of rotas but did we only find what he intended us to find?’
The Sixth Key Page 36