The Priests' Code

Home > Other > The Priests' Code > Page 7
The Priests' Code Page 7

by B. B. Balthis


  ‘Ah, I’ve worked that out now, but haven’t had a moment to write it in. It had some dirt on it, but a bit of my special cleaning fluid did the trick.’

  I took the book from her and, picking up a pencil, completed the text.

  ‘It reads like this.’

  I cannot sleep for my fears of the devastation that would come if our enemies were to gain our knowledge and make free with it.

  By now, it was almost one in the morning, and we were both stifling yawns. We decided to turn in and Caro took her bags, and went upstairs to the bedroom. I tidied up, carefully putting the documents back in the curtain linings. In bed, I flicked through the notebook once again. Written at the time of the revolution, the visits to France would have been dangerous to say the least. And the secret it spoke about? Was that just in France or here too? Apart from it being about a relative, why was Adrian so desperate to get hold of it? At this moment, I had no idea, but suspected that one way or another, I was going to find out.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ‘Morning, Ben – you were up early. You’ve washed up, too, and with coffee and toast at the ready. I’m honoured.’

  ‘And very lucky! What would you like to do today?’

  ‘I’d like to see the church that you told me about yesterday, and the relics. I might not believe in God but I still find the whole thing fascinating. These old churches are some of the most ancient and important buildings that we have, in France and here, although you wouldn’t think so, given the way they’re allowed to fall into disrepair. Romans populated this area, didn’t they? Are there any museums nearby?’

  We agreed to go to the church first and then into town to the library and museum, time allowing. We were soon in the car and driving the short distance to the village church, but not before I had tucked the copy journal carefully inside my jacket pocket and fastened the button firmly. Caro watched as I did this, but said nothing, and we soon arrived at the church gates and got out of the car. Agreeing to do the outside first, anti-clockwise from the porch, we immediately came across the massive empty Roman sarcophagus.

  ‘What a strange thing to do, just leaving it open and empty like that. I wonder what happened to its occupant? What do you know about it?’

  ‘Apparently, very little is known about it, except that it was brought into the churchyard from a much earlier burial ground in the village.’

  She walked around it again, examining it carefully, and taking several dozen photographs with her phone.

  ‘Don’t look now but I think we’re being watched. There’s a car on the other side of the railings? Let’s just carry on.’

  We continued to walk around the church, pointing out items of interest to each other. There were several ancient tabletop tombs and we stopped by the largest one to read the worn, lichen-covered inscription.

  William de Clare

  Died 31st August 1794

  No more to ride this once bold knight

  His life he lost but not his fight.

  ‘Do you think that might be your Clare from the notebook?’ Caro asked me. ‘We don’t really know where the journal was written… and Harcourt? Does his family come from the area too?’

  ‘Well, the name’s right, and the year, so it’s quite possible that it is him. And I do know that Adrian’s family has lived in these parts for a long time, because he told me. It’s something that he seems to be very proud of. I’d assumed that the journal was local because everything else in the box was, but it doesn’t necessarily follow, I suppose.’

  * * *

  Walking around the back of the church, we eventually arrived at the other side of the porch, now unseen by the car occupant. We studied the ancient tomb of the couple, laid together with what looked like a blanket covering their lower bodies.

  ‘The vicar said that a few parishioners call this one “The Lovers,” but no one seems to know much about it, and there isn’t anything in the church records either, which is odd, since they go back further than the tomb does. It’s medieval though, early fourteenth century, I believe. This type of thing is usually inside a church, not out in the graveyard.

  I told her more about the possible meaning of being under a blanket in burial terms, but that this made little sense with the man by her side.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything even remotely similar and, like you, I’ve visited hundreds of churches all over the world… what a bizarre thing.’

  We walked into the church porch, and she immediately noticed the unusual inscriptions and graffiti written on the massive old door and more photographs were taken.

  ‘What do you make of them, Caro?’

  ‘You’re the linguist, but I can see EL written several times, which was one of the Hebrew names for God, of course. I find the number eleven much more interesting though. It’s been engraved in multiple places on the door, and is symbolic in many ways if taken to be the number two as well. We can talk about it when we get back.’

  Inside, we studied the beautiful font and noticed more pairs of number ones, some surrounded by a square. There was also a considerable amount of beautifully engraved ‘tree of life’ designs inside the lead liner. They were graffiti, of course, but it was hard to call them that when they were so well executed. The crossover between paganism and Christianity fascinated me, as did things like numerology, even more so when all jumbled together in this way.

  Continuing to wander around, we eventually reached the relic copies of Jesus in the lit-up glass cabinet. Caro stared in awe, which I could quite understand. Once again, she took more photos, including some of the unusual vine-covered piscina, with a man’s head looking out from an empty cave, and the castellated tower on top.

  ‘Again, I’ve never seen anything like it. What’s that notch on his chin? I can’t quite work it out, and have you noticed how many Hel Eyes of Fire there are scratched into the stone everywhere?’

  ‘You mean the squares divided into four triangles? Yes, I did notice them. I assume you mean Hel the Norse Goddess? As for the notch, it baffled me too.’

  ‘Yes, the goddess of the underworld and the dead. This symbol, The Eye of Fire, is supposed to mean that she could see the truth and nothing could be hidden from her. I’ve seen it elsewhere, but never so many in one place. Of course, there are constant belief crossovers here, as in any old church: Roman, ancient Briton, Saxon, Viking, Norman, and so on. Symbols used to be so important in expressing views or ideas. For many people, it was the only tool they had. We take language, literacy, and freedom of speech so much for granted now, don’t we?’

  I agreed and, finishing our tour, we headed back to the car; the man who had been watching us now nowhere to be seen. We drove into town, parking in the market place.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ‘Do you mind if I go off and do a bit of clothes shopping first? You know how hard it is to buy anything decent near home in France, and I doubt if you want to traipse around clothes stores with me.’

  ‘I don’t mind at all. I’ll go to the library and wait for you there.’

  The librarian helped me to find what I needed, and I was soon ensconced in a quiet corner, the books open in front of me. The families that I was most interested in were the Harcourts and the de Clares. It didn’t take long to find the Harcourts. They appeared to have lived in the region for some time, and their connections to the Knights Templar came up several times within a few minutes of reading. The origins of the family seem to have been either from Normandy or Scandinavia, and their involvement with royalty was well documented, as well as their titles of lord, sir, and earl. Both origins seemed plausible.

  The most recent manor attributed to them was in a village a few miles away from where I lived, although, if it was the building I thought, it had been converted into apartments some time ago. That village had its own church too, which might explain why I had found no Harcourt
s in the graveyard where de Clare was. Looking in Debretts Peerage, I checked any titles still given to the family. Adrian, the only Harcourt I knew, was indeed afforded the title of ‘honourable’, and it came as no surprise that he currently lived about a mile from his ancient ancestral home.

  How odd it all was. If he had reason to believe that a book belonging to his family was missing, then why not just say so? Maybe it was to do with the ‘secret’ written about? If knowing about the ‘secret’ put me in danger, as he had alluded, then did it put him in danger too?

  * * *

  I moved on to the de Clares. This proved to be a little more difficult. There were plenty of de Clares throughout history, and the Templar links were well documented, but I couldn’t clearly identify any in the locality. William de Clare was buried in the churchyard near my cottage, so there was a definite link with the area. I thought for a moment and then picked up another, slightly later, book. My eye ran down the page, until at last, I found what I was looking for. William Saint Clair, also referred to as St Clare and, even later, as Sinclair. I should have known that this name had changed considerably throughout the last thousand years, as indeed had the Harcourts. The ancestral pile of the Clares was still partly in existence in the village, but was now a spa and conference centre owned by an American chain.

  At this moment, Caro came through the library doors, laden down with multicoloured bags. I gave the books back to the librarian and helped her with the shopping, which was soon stowed away in the boot of the car.

  ‘That was great fun. I won’t need to do go clothes hunting for several years. You’re so lucky to live near civilisation.’

  She paused for a moment and then spoke again.

  ‘Actually, I wouldn’t change where I live for anything. It’s so deeply a part of me that I don’t think I would survive very long without it.’

  ‘You probably would. You’d just adapt, but I know what you mean. My home is in France, not here. Just knowing that means I cope very well with my many temporary abodes. When I feel too disconnected, I just pop back for a few weeks, and then I’m fit to go off on my travels again. What would you like for dinner tonight? Or would you prefer to eat out?’

  ‘I was just thinking about that. Do you know what I would really like more than anything? Chicken cacciatore, like grandmother used to make on the open fire. I dream about it, I swear. Can you make it?’

  ‘Of course, I can make it, although on a gas stove, not a huge open fireplace that can sit six people in it.’

  It was a robust Italian dish, made with tomatoes, onions, mushrooms, olives, herbs, and red wine, and we walked to the butchers at the other end of the High Street to buy the chicken.

  ‘Stay there, Benoît – I’ll be back in a minute’.

  She dashed off across the street. I chatted briefly to the butcher as he packed up the meat, and then waited for her outside. She appeared some ten minutes later, holding another shopping bag.

  ‘Don’t look now, but Black Coat is still following… how very odd. How do you cope with it?’

  I shrugged. ‘Just ignore him. As you know, it went on for several years when I was in Italy, and I barely gave it a thought in the end. I’m worried about you though. You shouldn’t be involved at all.’

  Now nearly half past one, we once again put the shopping in the car and walked back over the road to a café above an antique shop. Ordering a sandwich and coffee apiece, we sat by the window, watching the people in the street below. I told Caro about my research from the library, agreeing to talk more once back at the cottage. The visit to the museum would have to wait.

  * * *

  It was gone four by the time we were back, and the car emptied. After locking the door and putting the kettle on, Caro presented me with a large, cardboard box, tied up with a blue satin ribbon. I didn’t think that anything had been wrapped like that since the fifties, but was surprised and very pleased with the soft, camel-coloured cashmere dressing gown inside.

  ‘Thank you so much. It’s beautiful and will be perfect for the winters here.’

  ‘Well,’ she explained, ‘I saw your old threadbare one on the back of the bathroom door. I remember your mother buying it for your twenty-first birthday. By all means, keep it for sentimental reasons, but really, Benoît, you’re a wealthy man. You don’t need to go around looking like a tramp.’

  I resented the tramp allusion, and the accusation that I ‘go around’ in my dressing gown, since no one sees it but me. However, I was grateful, and thanked her again. I knew that I needed a new one, and had even turned the corner of a page in a catalogue, but that was it. As for my being wealthy, truthfully it was something I rarely thought about. Caro had been left large sums of money and property by her parents too, but, like me, this fact was concealed from others. Money often changed people and usually not for the better. However, it was good to know that I would never starve, and could support myself well if I needed to.

  She proceeded to show me the clothes and other things that she had bought for herself, before taking them upstairs to squash into her suitcase. We had barely sat down with a strong cup of Lapsang, when there was a loud knocking at the door. I dragged myself from the chair and, when I opened it, peeking through the gap left by the security chain, was very surprised to see the bishop standing there.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘My dear Benoît,’ he greeted me. ‘I’m so sorry to disturb you when you are having time off, but I wanted to have a word.’

  ‘It isn’t a problem at all – do come in. It’s rather humble I’m afraid.’

  Despite our friendship, and me knowing full well that his name was August Dillon, I had always called him ‘bishop.’ Neither of us minded this and so it had stuck. He had never been to the cottage as I had always driven to Oxford to meet him. I led him into the tiny sitting room and introduced him to Caro.

  ‘Bishop, meet Caro, my cousin. We grew up together. She’s popped over from France for a few days. Caro, this is Bishop August.’

  ‘Ben, if you had ever seen the house that I grew up in, you would hardly apologise for your delightful cottage. There were eight of us in a one roomed shack on a hillside. Humble wasn’t the word for it, I can assure you, and Caro, my dear, do please call me August. My parents lacked imagination when it came to names, and we were all called after the month we were born in. One of my brothers was called September, but we soon shortened that to Seb! I’ve come on a fool’s mission, I fear, but it was worth it just to meet you.’

  ‘It’s an amazing name! Ben often speaks about you… it’s wonderful to meet you at a last.’

  ‘Do sit down, bishop. Would you like tea? We were drinking Lapsang, but I know it’s not everyone’s favourite.’

  ‘I love it, so yes please. Now, let me tell you why I’m here.’

  ‘Let me guess. You’ve received word that I am entertaining women, am a gigolo, and need to be defrocked and thrown out of the Roman Catholic Church. Is that somewhere close? As you can see, there are no women here, only Caro.’

  ‘Spot on. Ludicrous of course, and I did remember that you had a cousin you were close to, but I was driving through on my way to Gloucester, so thought I would pop in.’

  ‘Watch it, Benoît. I might not be a woman in your eyes, just the tomboy you roamed the mountains with, but I am one nonetheless, and I’m not too old to give you a good thump either.’

  The bishop roared at this and I left them to it whilst I went to make more tea. He had never mentioned his living in poverty when he was a child. Obviously, I knew he was Irish, and that he had several sisters and brothers, but that was about it. Of course, he didn’t know everything about my childhood either. However, I was intrigued, and intended to ask him about it again in the future if the opportunity arose.

  We chatted about various things for a while, he and Caro becoming engrossed in a discussion about I
reland in the Middle Ages, and I sat back and listened. It was now six thirty, and I wondered if the bishop would like to eat with us. I asked him.

  ‘But, Benoît, I wouldn’t want to be a nuisance. You probably don’t have enough food anyway, and I fear that I’ve ruined your evening already.’

  ‘Bishop, there’s enough for half a dozen people so no worries on that score. We’d love to have you.’

  He seemed delighted, and made a quick call to his driver, advising him of a later pick-up time. Caro went into the kitchen coming out with two bottles of wine.

  ‘A surprise,’ she said. The bishop and I looked at the labels; Lacryma Christi, one red, and one white.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ we both said at the same time. ‘It’s so hard to get hold of over here.’

  The bishop had also spent many years in Italy, several of them in Naples, and was as keen on good and unusual wine as I was. Lacryma Christi was made from grapes grown on the slopes of Vesuvius, and the name quite literally translated to ‘Tears of Christ.’

  ‘I know,’ she answered. ‘I couldn’t believe it when I saw it. He only had a few cases, and I knew you would want them, so I bought the lot. He said to give him a ring, and he’ll deliver them when it suits.’

  ‘What a surprise! Thank you so much. We’ll talk about money later.’

  I knew I would have a battle on my hands to be allowed to pay, and went to fetch the best crystal glasses, of which there were now only four. I had moved so much, and each time I did, another one seemed to get broken. Opening the red bottle, I left it to breathe for a few minutes, and put the white one in the fridge. The bishop carefully poured the rich, blood-coloured wine.

  ‘Cin cin, salute.’

  ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to start dinner.’

 

‹ Prev