The Expected One Read online

  “Didn’t Tammy say there was an official Crusade against them?” Maureen asked as they continued on the winding path into the red hills.

  Sinclair nodded. “A savage act of genocide, killing over a million people and launched by the ironically named Pope Innocent III. Have you ever heard the phrase ‘Kill them all and let God sort them out’?”

  Maureen cringed. “Yes, of course. It’s a barbaric sentiment.”

  “It was first uttered in the thirteenth century, by the papal troops who butchered the Cathars at Béziers. To be precise, they said, ‘Neca eos omnes. Deus suos agnoset,’ which translates as ‘Kill them all. God will recognize his own.’ ”

  He turned to Peter abruptly. “Recognize it?”

  Peter shook his head, not sure where Sinclair was going with this, but unwilling to fall into an intellectual trap.

  “It’s borrowed from your Saint Paul. From Second Timothy, chapter two, verse nineteen. ‘The Lord knoweth them that are his.’ ”

  Peter put up his hand to stop Sinclair. “You can hardly blame Paul for the fact that his words were corrupted.”

  “Can’t I? I believe I just did. Paul sticks in my craw, to be sure. And it’s no accident that our enemies have used his words against us for many centuries. That is only the beginning.”

  Maureen attempted to diffuse the increasing tension between the two men, bringing Sinclair back to the local history.

  “What happened at Béziers?”

  “Neca eos omnes. Kill them all,” Sinclair repeated. “And that is precisely what the Crusaders did in our beautiful town of Béziers. They put every soul to the sword — from the most elderly to the tiniest infant. Not one person was spared by the butchers. Perhaps as many as a hundred thousand were murdered in that siege alone. Legend says that our hills are red to this day in mourning for the slaughtered innocents.”

  They walked in silence for a few moments, out of respect for the departed souls of this ancient land. The massacres had occurred almost eight centuries prior, yet there was a sense of these lost spirits all around, a presence that hung on every breeze that blew across the foothills of the Pyrenees. This was and would always be Cathar country.

  Sinclair resumed his lecture. “Of course, a number of Cathars escaped, taking refuge in Spain, Germany, and Italy. They preserved their secrets and their teachings, but no one knows what became of their greatest treasure.”

  “What treasure was that?” Peter asked.

  Sinclair looked around him, his inextricable connection to the land evident in his expression. This place and its history were etched into his soul. No matter how many times he related these stories, each telling revealed his unparalleled passion.

  “There are a great many legends about what the Cathar treasures actually consisted of. Some say it was the Holy Grail, others claim it was the real shroud of Christ or the crown of thorns. But the true treasure was one of the two most sacred books ever written. The Cathars were the custodians of the Book of Love, the one — the only — true gospel.”

  He paused for emphasis, before adding the exclamation point.

  “The Book of Love was the one true gospel because it was written entirely in the hand of Jesus Christ himself.”

  Peter stopped dead in his tracks at this revelation. He stared at Sinclair.

  “What’s the matter, Father Healy? They didn’t teach you about the Book of Love in the seminary?”

  Maureen looked equally incredulous. “Do you think such a thing really ever existed?”

  “Oh, it existed. It was brought from the Holy Land by Mary Magdalene and passed down with extreme caution by her descendants. It’s highly likely that the Book of Love was the true purpose behind the Crusades against the Cathars. The officials of the Church were desperate to get their hands on that book, but not to protect and treasure it, I can assure you.”

  “The Church would never damage something so priceless and sacred,” Peter scoffed.

  “No? And what if such a document could be authenticated? And what if that authenticated document disputed not only many of the tenets, but the very authority of the Church itself? In Christ’s own hand? What then, Father?”

  “That’s pure speculation.”

  “You are entitled to your opinion, as I am to mine. However, mine is based in the knowledge of highly protected facts. But to continue with my…speculation, the Church was successful in its quest on some level. After the open persecution of the Cathars, the Pure Ones were forced underground and the Book of Love disappeared forever. Very few people today even realize it ever existed. Quite a task, to eliminate the existence of something so powerful from history.”

  Peter had been deep in concentration during Sinclair’s speech. He spoke after another contemplative minute. “You said the true treasure was one of the two most sacred books ever written. If a gospel written in Jesus’ own hand is one, what could the other possibly be?”

  Bérenger Sinclair stopped and closed his eyes. The summer winds, similar to the mistrals farther east in Provence, were brewing, blowing his hair around his face. He took a deep breath, then opened his eyes and looked straight into Maureen’s as he answered.

  “The other is the Gospel of Mary Magdalene, a pure and perfect account of her life with Jesus Christ.”

  Maureen was frozen. She stared back at Sinclair, trapped by his expression of passion.

  Peter broke the spell. “Did the Cathars claim to have that in their possession as well?”

  Sinclair looked away from Maureen after another second, then shook his head as he answered Peter. “No, they didn’t. Unlike the Book of Love, which had historical witnesses, no one has ever seen Magdalene’s gospel. Probably because it has never been found. It is believed that it may have been hidden near the village of Rennes-le-Château, where you visited earlier. Did Tammy show you the Tower of Alchemy?”

  Maureen nodded. Peter was too busy trying to discern how Sinclair knew so much about their movements. Maureen was beyond caring, too caught up in the living history — and in Sinclair’s unabashed love of it. “She did, but I still don’t really understand why it’s so important.”

  “It’s important for many reasons, but for our purposes here and now, it is believed by some that Mary Magdalene lived and wrote her gospel on the site where the tower now stands. She hid the documents, then sealed them in a cave somewhere, where they would remain until the time was right to reveal her version of events.”

  Sinclair pointed to a series of large holes resembling caverns in the mountains around them. “See those craters in the mountain? They’re scars made by treasure seekers over the last hundred years.”

  “They’re looking for these gospels?”

  Sinclair’s laugh was a small, wry sound. “Ironically, most of them don’t even know what they’re looking for. Utterly clueless. They know the legend of the Cathar treasure, or they’ve read one of the many books on Saunière and his mysterious wealth. But most don’t know what it is. Some think it’s the Holy Grail or the Ark of the Covenant, while others are sure it’s the looted treasure from the Temple of Jerusalem or a hoard of Visigoth gold in a hidden tomb.

  “Utter the word ‘treasure’ and otherwise rational human beings become instant savages. People have traveled here from all over the world for centuries to solve the mysteries of the Languedoc. Believe me, I’ve seen it many times. Treasure hunters used dynamite to create those caves up there. Without my permission, I might add.”

  Sinclair pointed out more ragged caverns in the mountainside, then continued with his explanation.

  “Protecting the nature of the treasure became as important as the treasure itself to the Cathars, which is why so few people in this modern age even know these gospels existed. Look at the devastation wrought here even based on speculation. You can imagine what they would do to our land if people were to discover the priceless and sacred nature of the true treasure trove.”

  Sinclair regaled them with further local legends of treasure, as well as the mo
re sordid stories of unscrupulous seekers who had ravaged the natural resources of the area. He told them how the Nazis had sent teams here during the war in an effort to uncover occult artifacts that they believed to be buried in the region. As far as anyone knew, Hitler’s troops were unsuccessful in their search and ultimately left the area empty-handed — and lost the war shortly thereafter.

  Peter was subdued and quiet, content to hang back and allow the vast amount of information to settle in. Later, he would sort through the details and determine how much was potentially true and how much was Sinclair’s Languedoc romanticism. It would be easy to get caught up in legends of the Grail and of lost holy manuscripts in such a raw and mystical place as this. Yet even Peter felt his pulse quicken at the very idea of the existence of such artifacts.

  Maureen walked with Sinclair, listening carefully. Peter wasn’t sure if it was Maureen the journalist and author or Maureen the single woman who was hanging on Sinclair’s every word. But she was rapt, her attention utterly focused on the charismatic Scot.

  As they rounded a corner at the top of a small hill, a stone tower resembling a castle turret appeared to spring out of the side of the slope. It stood several stories tall, singular and incongruous in the rocky landscape.

  “This looks like Saunière’s tower!” Maureen exclaimed.

  “We call it Sinclair’s Folly. Built by my grandfather. And yes, he modeled it after Saunière’s. Our view isn’t quite as dramatic as the one from Rennes-le-Château because we’re lower in elevation, but it’s still quite lovely. Care to see it?”

  Maureen looked over at a preoccupied Peter to see if he wanted to explore the tower. He shook his head. “I’ll stay down here. You go on up.”

  Sinclair removed a key from his pocket and unlocked the door to the tower. He entered first, leading Maureen up a steep set of spiral stairs. He opened a door onto a rooftop deck and gestured for Maureen to go ahead of him.

  The view of Cathar country and the ruined and ancient châteaux in the distance was magnificent. Maureen savored the vista for a moment before asking Sinclair, “Why did he build it?”

  “Same reason Saunière built his. Bird’s-eye view. They believed you could glimpse many secrets from above.”

  Maureen leaned on the rampart and groaned with frustration. “Why is everything a riddle? You promised answers, but so far you’ve only given me more questions.”

  “Why don’t you ask the voices in your head? Or better still, the woman in your visions? She’s the one who brought you here.”

  Maureen was stunned. “How do you know about her?”

  Sinclair’s smile was knowing, but not smug.

  “You’re a female of the Paschal blood. It’s to be expected. Do you know about the origins of your family name?”

  “Paschal? My father was born in Louisiana of French descent, like everyone else in the bayou.”

  “Cajun?”

  Maureen nodded. “From what I understand. He died when I was young. I don’t remember much about him.”

  “Do you know where the word ‘Cajun’ comes from? ‘Arcadian.’ The French who settled in Louisiana were called Arcadians, which evolved via local dialect into ‘Acadian’ and then to ‘Cajun.’ Tell me, have you ever looked up the word ‘paschal’ in an English dictionary?”

  Maureen was watching him now, curious but increasingly cautious. “No, I can’t say I ever have.”

  “It surprises me that someone of your research capabilities knows so little about her own family name.”

  Maureen turned away from him when she spoke about her past. “When my father died, my mother took me to live with her people in Ireland. I had no contact with my father’s family after that.”

  “Still, one of your parents must have had a premonition of your destiny.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Your name. Maureen. You do know what that means?”

  The warm wind blew through again, ruffling Maureen’s red hair. “Of course. It’s Irish for ‘little Mary.’ Peter calls me that all the time.”

  Sinclair shrugged as if he had made his point and gazed out at the Languedoc. Maureen followed his line of sight to where a series of massive rocks were scattered across the sprawling grassy plain.

  The summer sun struck something in the distance. The reflection caused Maureen to do a quick double take, as if she saw something out in the field.

  Sinclair appeared keenly interested in Maureen’s line of vision. “What is it?”

  “Nothing.” Maureen shook her head. “Just…the sun in my eyes.”

  Sinclair wasn’t ready to let it go. “Are you sure?”

  Maureen hesitated for a long moment as she looked to the field again. She nodded, before asking the question that was heavy on her mind. “All this talk about my family name. When will you show me the letter from my father?”

  “I think you will have more of an understanding when this evening is over.”

  Maureen returned to her lavish bedroom at the château to bathe and change for dinner. As she emerged from the bathroom, she noticed something she had not seen upon first entering the room. On her bed was a large hardcover book — an English dictionary — opened to the letter “p” pages.

  The word “Paschal” was circled in red pen. Maureen read the definition.

  “Paschal — Any symbolic representation of Christ. The Paschal Lamb is the symbol of Christ and of Easter.”

  …I am told by many of this man who was called Paul. He caused great turmoil among the elect, and some journeyed the long distance from Rome as well as Ephesus to consult me on this man and his words.

  It is not for me to judge, nor can I say what was in his soul as I did not encounter him in the flesh and did not look into his eyes. But I can say with certainty that this man Paul never met Easa and that I was most distressed to hear that he would speak for him and all that he taught of the light and goodness that is The Way.

  There were many things about this man that I believed to be dangerous. He was once allied with the harshest followers of John, all men who held Easa in great contempt. They opposed the teachings of The Way as it was given to us by him. I am told that he was once known as Saul of Tarsus and was a man who persecuted the elect. He stood by while a young follower of Easa, a beautiful young man called Stephen who had a heart filled with love, was crushed with stones. Some tell that this Saul encouraged the stoning of Stephen. That man was the first after Easa to die for his faith in The Way. But he would be far from the last. Because of men like Saul of Tarsus.

  There was much to beware of there.

  THE ARQUES GOSPEL OF MARY MAGDALENE,

  THE BOOK OF DISCIPLES

  Chapter Nine

  Château des Pommes Bleues

  June 23, 2005

  The dining room Sinclair had chosen for this evening was his private one, less formal than the cavernous main dining salon of the château. The room was adorned with excellent replicas of Botticelli’s most famous paintings. Both versions of the masterworks known as Lamentation covered most of one wall, showing the crucified Jesus in the Pietà position across his mother’s lap. In the first version, his head is cradled by a weeping Mary Magdalene; in the second, she holds his feet. Three of the Renaissance master’s madonna paintings, Madonna with Pomegranate, Madonna with the Book, and Madonna of the Magnificat hung in costly gilded frames on two other walls.

  Maureen and Peter were distracted from the artwork only when they saw that a traditional Languedoc feast was in store for them. Bubbling tureens of cassoulet, the hearty white bean stew flavored with duck confit and sausage, were brought to the table by serving women, while crusty bread filled baskets on the table. Rich red wine from the Corbières waited to be poured.

  “Welcome to the Botticelli room,” Sinclair announced as he entered. “I understand you have recently developed quite an affinity for our Sandro.”

  Maureen and Peter stared at him.

  “Did you have us followed?” Peter asked.

/>   “Of course,” Sinclair replied matter-of-factly. “And I’m delighted that I did because I was immensely impressed that you ended up at the wedding frescoes. Our Sandro was entirely devoted to the Magdalene, which becomes obvious in his most famous works. Like this one.”

  Sinclair pointed to a replica of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus, the now-iconic painting that depicts the naked goddess rising out of the waves standing on a scallop shell.

  “This represents Mary Magdalene’s arrival on the shores of France. She is shown as the Goddess of Love often in Renaissance painting and has a strong association with the planet Venus.”

  “I’ve seen that painting a hundred times, at least,” Maureen commented. “I had no idea it was Mary Magdalene.”

  “Few people do. Our Sandro was instrumental in a Tuscan organization that was dedicated to preserving her name and memory, the Confraternity of Mary Magdalene. Did you understand the symbolism of the frescoes you saw in the Louvre?”

  Maureen hesitated. “I’m not sure.”

  “Take your best guess.”

  “My first thought was astrology, or at least astronomy. The scorpion represented the constellation of Scorpio, and the archer’s bow was representative of Sagittarius.”

  “Bravo. I believe that to be quite right. Have you ever heard of the Languedoc Zodiac?”

  “No, but I have heard of the Glastonbury Zodiac in England. Are they similar?”

  “Yes. If you lay a map of the constellations over this region, you will find that the cities fall within certain constellations. The same is true of Glastonbury.”