The Priests' Code

by B. B. Balthis

  I found myself going over the events of the evening as the water cascaded down. Harcourt no longer posed any threat, I was sure of that, so who was the person that wanted me dead? Was it the same one had that tried to push me under a train and run me down in his car? If so, who was it? Why was someone so desperate to kill me? As I dried myself, the phone rang.

  ‘No more news, Ben; he’s still in theatre, so don’t rush. Have something to eat and rest for a bit. When you get here, we’ll come back and clean up.’

  I had only just put the phone down when it rang again. This time it was Franco.

  ‘Are you alright? And Caro? Aldo told me what happened. I know you will want to get to the hospital, but I had to speak with you. I’ll call you again tomorrow.’

  ‘Franco, the bullet was meant for me. The bishop seemed to know and moved in front of me. It went straight through him and is now wedged in my mobile phone. Who wants me dead so badly, and why?’

  ‘We will meet soon and talk. For now, you will be safe, I’m sure of that. Please, call me tomorrow, and let me know if you get a new mobile number.’ He hung up.

  More secrets… a seemingly never-ending chain of them. I quickly dressed, then went downstairs and out into the yard. The package of documents and my laptop were still there, and I brushed off the compost as I went back into the cottage. I put the laptop to one side, pulled the ribbon from the tattered envelope, and tipped out the contents. Whatever was in there was now going to reveal itself. I couldn’t and wouldn’t wait, nor put it off any longer. Enough blood had been shed and now it needed to stop!

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT

  I stared at the dusty bundle on the table in front of me. The largest packet was wrapped in several layers of worn linen cloth and thick paper. One glance, and I knew exactly what they were; Franco’s Roman parchments. Not so old – definitely not Roman, but almost identical copies. If I had to date them, I would guess at somewhere around the early to mid-eleventh century.

  There was another batch, this time wrapped in what looked like thin cow hide. It was almost translucent with age, the edges sealed with red wax, and was similar to the parchments that Hortense had given us, taken from the cellar of my house in France. I went to the kitchen to get the small bag of tools that I used for these jobs. I had opened many sealed parchments, and always felt a huge thrill at being the first to see something that had been written many hundreds of years before, but at this moment, I felt none of that. The events of the night had left me feeling shaken and nauseous.

  I took my camera from the cupboard, since my phone was now unusable, and took shots of the Roman copies and the unopened cowhide envelope. Using my sharp, razor knife, I slowly began to slice through the wax across the top, stopping every thirty seconds or so to take more photos.

  After a few minutes, it was fully opened and I carefully pulled out several thick, velum parchments. They were written in a different hand but, as far as I could tell without further investigation, were from a similar period. The first was a simple genealogy, folded into three and written in Latin, still clear despite its age and easily decipherable. I was particularly careful as I unfolded it, desperate to do no damage. As usual, the smell of dust, age, and history came to life; filtering through my nostrils as I took a deep breath to quell the rising nausea.

  It was exactly as Hortense had said, and I followed the names from the bottom up, covering some five hundred years of the first millennium AD. Then I noticed that it had been cut. The genealogy started with Sara, and anything that had been written before that, had been neatly sliced off, and not very long ago given the cleanness of the cut and parchment edge. Perhaps Peter had done it? If so, where was the cut-off piece now? I looked in the envelope again, but it was empty. Jumping from the chair, I ran to the bathroom, where I vomited repeatedly. Eventually, the nausea subsided, and after washing my face and fetching a glass of water, I went back to the table.

  So here it was, the evidence that everyone had been searching for, but with the most important bit missing. And it was a copy, albeit a very ancient one. Where was the original? Did it even still exist? Had it been hidden in the piscina pedestal at Antugnac, and was now buried in the Vatican vaults, or somewhere else? I knew that if Caro were here she would be wild with excitement or fury as she examined the document, but I felt nothing. Right now, I couldn’t give a damn about Sara, her ancestors, or anything connected to the whole sordid story.

  * * *

  I refolded the parchment and picked up another. This was of the same age and style and written in Latin. It was a simple declaration, once again exactly as Hortense said. It described the arrival of Jesus, Mary Magdalene, Martha, Sara, and Joseph of Arimathea, by boat to the then Roman Gaul, in the south of France. It told the tale of their settlement in the Rhedae area, of Mary’s work as an alchemist and healer, and the departure of Jesus and Joseph to England a couple of years later, which was where they had both died, Jesus first, then Joseph.

  * * *

  I picked up the last parchment, which was dry and dusty, and in a much poorer condition than the others. At a guess, though, it was less old, and probably nearer to the fourteenth century in date.

  Some of the words were very faded, and I composed myself, as I always did for the documents that were more difficult to read. As I worked my way through, I recognised the story as that depicted on my cellar walls in France. It described the journey of two Knights Templar from Rhedae, bringing with them the remains of a body to Corinium Dobunnorum, the old Latin name for Cirencester.

  A few words here and there were almost completely missing, but what was left was enough to understand that the contents of the wooden coffin that they described were the remains of Mary Magdalene, and their destination was the village in which I was now living. Their desire was to ‘reunite her with her husband, Jesus, who has been waiting there for more than a millennium.’

  Hortense had known, of course, as no doubt had my parents. Both Caro and I had also made the links, although we hadn’t yet voiced this to each other. My mind recalled the mysterious medieval tomb of the couple in the local graveyard with the turned-down blanket or shroud, perhaps signifying both childbirth and an unveiling of the truth. The Roman sarcophagus found nearby and also placed in the graveyard; had its movers in much more recent times known that this was where it belonged?

  How many people knew the truth but stayed silent? Dozens? Hundreds? Thousands? Quite likely more than that. Was I going to stay silent too? Could it really be that the mystery that had surrounded a handful of people for so long was now solved?

  Or was this just another cleverly orchestrated but fraudulent smokescreen, to truths that would always refuse to be fully revealed?

  I suddenly remembered what Hortense had said in one of her letters.

  One can always hope that they were stupid enough to be unable to decipher the narrative of truth. A narrative of lies and greed is always preferable, n’est-ce pas?

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE

  The phone rang again.

  ‘The bishop is out of theatre and on life support, but it’s touch and go. Bill and I are going to sit with him for another hour or two and then come back.’

  ‘But surely, if he made it through the surgery he stands a chance? I’ll be leaving shortly. My mobile doesn’t work because the bullet that hit the bishop is wedged inside it. Let’s not talk about it now, though, I can’t face it.’ There was a pause for a moment.

  ‘You’ve opened it up… the package from the Peter’s desk? I knew you would. They’re both in the churchyard, aren’t they? It’s on your cellar walls. But, Benoît, I feel nothing. No excitement, no awe… nothing. I just want the bishop to be OK.’

  ‘I know, that’s how it is with me too. Anyway, even if they were once there, after all this time, there won’t be anything left but dust. I can’t help thinking that somewhere along the line we’ve missed the po
int entirely.’

  ‘You may well be right. We’ve been discussing similar things.’

  ‘I’ve just got to tidy up and pack a few clothes, and I’ll be there. Then I’m not going to leave him; not until he either recovers or dies. Perhaps when you’re back and have had a rest, you could get me another mobile phone? I’ll see you soon.’ I went back to the table, quickly taking more photos and then carefully putting the parchments back into their cowhide envelope. There were just two envelopes remaining, one much larger and older than the other.

  Inside the smaller one, were two letters, each in its own envelope. I thought, and hoped, that one of them might be from Bigou, and I felt the usual shiver of awe and excitement. I was glad. It meant that the shock was receding and I could function more appropriately to my current circumstances. I would certainly need this to help the bishop, and indeed myself, over the coming days and weeks, whatever they brought.

  * * *

  My hands shook as I carefully opened the first envelope. As I had hoped, it was a letter written by Abbé Antoine Bigou, and I was sure that it was an original. Written in French, once again, it was exactly as Hortense had said. As I read it through, I felt the stirring inside me of connection to another human being in a time of deep distress and heightened emotion. Clearly, he carried the burden of what he had discovered or been told very heavily. At the bottom of the letter were three lines. They were heartbreaking to read, and my eyes filled with tears: tears for Bigou, for the bishop, and for myself.

  God has gone from me and my life is to be lived without meaning or purpose. I will now exit the place that is at the centre of the universe. I have played my part and now it is over. It is done, and cannot be undone. However, I will return. We all return.

  Antoine Bigou. 22 March 1793

  It echoed some of the things that Hortense had said, and Caro too, when she declared that all roads led to Rennes-le-Château, and I felt deeply moved.

  * * *

  Pushing the second smaller envelope to one side, I reached for the much larger, older one, made of thick faded velum and covered with dirt and stains. Without further study, it looked to be contemporary in age to Franco’s Roman parchments. It had already been opened and holding my breath, I carefully pulled it out. Narrow lines of dry, grey, dust lay in the creases, and I brushed this away and sat back to take a good view. Once again, the musty smell that I used to love wafted up, and I swallowed several times to quell the rising nausea.

  There was little doubt that it was a map, faded and torn in places, and as stained and dirty as the envelope. It was, however, far less old, and not contemporary to its ancient envelope at all. At a wild guess, I would place it somewhere in the eleventh or twelfth century.

  Despite its age, the lines and shapes on the map were quite clear, in a dark, blood red, and defined in places with black, possibly having been redrawn in much more recent times. There were small areas of script all over it, although not in any language that I recognised.

  With no time to study to further, I carefully folded it up and slid it back in its envelope. It wouldn’t go in fully, and pulling it out again I turned the envelope upside down, and out fluttered a small piece of paper, about ten centimetres wide and five deep.

  Yellowed, but not old, it had a date – 08/07/43 – and a stamped insignia of an eagle over a swastika, a common Nazi symbol. In its top right corner were three numbers written in faded red ink: 666. Of course I recognised it. The number of the beast, from the Book of Revelations, in the New Testament. In Greek manuscripts, it was titled ‘The Apocalypse of John.’ It might certainly be applied to the Nazis, but I knew that it was far more complex than being solely a symbol of the devil, and had many mysterious meanings. I turned it over. On the back, written in the same red ink, were three initials.

  H D M.

  The handwriting was unmistakable… Hortense de Morny. Was this the Ark map she had written about in her letter? And was this her way of warning us, or anyone who might find it, of the potential danger linked to the map? Why hadn’t she just destroyed it if she felt so strongly as to mark it in this way? I remembered the warning to us in her final letter. I had no belief at all in the map being either jinxed or unlucky, nor in fact, of the Ark itself being either of these things. My view was that the danger it brought would be one of greed, power, and control, the same as it had always been, and yet it was unlike Hortense to be anything other than matter of fact.

  I had no doubt that she had hidden it; perhaps here in the church, or maybe someone, possibly Peter, had found it elsewhere and brought it here? I doubted that I would ever know for sure.

  I had no desire to look at it again, and had no intention of doing so in the future. If Caro knew I had it, then at the very least she would want to see it. Even if she had no intention of going searching, which I doubted, I had put her in enough danger already, and did not intend to do that for a second time. I was not going to show it to her. My mind was made up.

  * * *

  I opened the last small envelope to reveal another letter. It was one that I had not expected to find, nor hoped would exist. Caro would treasure it like no other, but there was no time now to examine it further, as I had to go. I still had the present and, hopefully, a future, and like all those who had gone before me, I would play my hand too; I could do no more.

  I took more photos and then ran upstairs to fetch a change of clothes. I carefully packed up the parchments and letters, got my laptop and camera, and put the lot into my bag. As soon as I could, I would take it to the bank vault, its fate to be decided when I had given it the thought it deserved. I had money and a credit card for drinks and the payphone at the hospital; all I wanted now was to be with the bishop.

  * * *

  My strength and resolve had returned with the reading of the last letter. If the writer could continue with courage and face the world when everything had crumbled around him, then so could I.

  At the end of the day, it was present connections that mattered. The lure of the past was immensely strong but served little purpose, apart from being an aid to avoidance of what was going on in the moment, rather like a drug might do. If there were any truths at all to be found amongst the letters and parchments, then this was the one that spoke out to me, loud and clear, and I fully intended to listen.

  CHAPTER NINETY

  An hour later, I walked through the corridors of the large county hospital to find Caro and Bill waiting for me outside the bishop’s room. They looked exhausted – still in clothes that were splattered with dried blood.

  ‘He’s still alive,’ Caro said. ‘But be warned; there are wires, tubes, and machines everywhere, and he looks awful. We saw the consultant just before you got here, and he said we mustn’t raise our hopes. He lost a huge amount of blood, and the bullet has damaged his liver quite badly.’

  Bill continued. ‘We’ll clean up, Ben, have a quick rest, and then I’ll go out and get you a new phone. Do eat and drink something, won’t you? You have to look after yourself if you want to be here for the bishop.’

  I nodded, and hugged them both. I watched as they walked down the corridor, hand in hand, like they had known each other for ever. Once again, I felt the fracture inside me twist, and a solid black mass of grief attempted to escape from my mouth in the form of a sob, directly from my heart.

  ‘Benoît… je suis avec toi.’ My mother’s voice. ‘I am with you.’ I looked around, but as I already knew, I was alone in the brightly lit corridor.

  ‘About time too,’ I replied.

  * * *

  I turned and opened the door of the bishop’s room. The lights were subdued and a young female doctor was standing in front of the various monitors. She beckoned me in.

  ‘Father Benoît?’ I nodded. ‘No change I’m afraid. It’s early days. His family have been called but it’ll be a while before they get here. Stay for as long as you l
ike, and do talk to him if you want to. Sometimes it helps. Any problems, I’ll be at the desk in the corridor. The police have been around, but I’ve sent them packing.’

  She left, closing the door quietly behind her. I looked around me. The bishop lay still on the bed, looking exactly as Caro had described. His eyes were closed and he was almost as white as the sheets that covered him. Wires were attached from every direction, tiny lights and numbers pulsed on the various screens, and drips silently slipped their contents into his still body.

  I sat down on the chair by the side of the bed, my bag still slung across my front, where it would remain unless forcibly removed from me.

  EPILOGUE

  For we are but of yesterday, and know nothing,

  because our days upon earth are a shadow:

  (Job 8:9)

  ‘Bishop? It’s me, Benoît… I’m here. There’s no need to worry about anything. We all love you, and I’m not going anywhere until you’re well. You are not alone.’

  I reached out to gently hold his hand in mine.

  And so, my vigil had begun. I recalled other vigils that I had lived through, particularly when I was very young, and my parents had, once again, disappeared into the dark night, gone away to some place unknown to me, with their return uncertain.

  Unable to sleep or rest for a moment, I was like a sentinel on duty, knowing this: that whilst I watched and waited all would be well.

  I would wait this night out too, and all the others that might follow, for if I could maintain my position of guard, then both the bishop and I would be safe.