The Book of Love Read online

  Bérenger joined in. “The Cathar culture had been decimated by the holocaust against them. Those who were left were scattered all over Europe, and we lost the thread of history there.”

  Returning to Roland, Maureen asked, “And yet some of you survived. Your family, the few who escaped the massacre at Montségur. My ancestress. Wouldn’t they have done something to preserve the Book of Love?”

  “Yes, of course, but they were in no position to talk about it. Even when the Cathars lived here in peace, before the massacres, they did not discuss the Book of Love openly, not ever. You can certainly understand why they would not have been able to do that.”

  Bérenger made the key point. “So the Cathars protected it by never speaking of it. And the Church certainly didn’t want anyone left alive who knew what it was and the explosive nature of its contents. So what you have is something that is by its nature so great a secret, to those who revere it and those who despise it, that its very existence is eliminated from history.”

  Maureen nodded her understanding. “Of course. So its last known resting place…”

  “Was officially Montségur,” said Roland. “Although legend says that it was taken into northern Spain by your ancestor, La Paschalina, where it was installed at the monastery of Our Lady of Montserrat. After that…is anybody’s guess.”

  “And while there was only one, the true Book written in Jesus’ own hand,” said Bérenger, “we are quite certain that there were copies made at various times in history. The idea of copies is interesting because at least there is a possibility that the content is alive somewhere, even if the original has been lost.”

  “And do you think it has been lost?”

  They were all silent, contemplating. Roland said finally, “It’s in Rome somewhere. They were so committed to the idea of obtaining that book that they committed genocide. The Church would not have stopped until they found it. It is the dark secret behind the Inquisition. The Inquisition was founded to root out all the Cathars and their sympathizers, and then it spread like the terrible plague that it was for humanity. And yet something now tells me that all is not lost. If you are having dreams again, and someone here in the physical world is trying to contact you…perhaps there is a copy left somewhere that we can find. This is a new hope for us all.”

  Maureen used the extensive resources in Bérenger’s library for research after dinner. She was hoping to find some material, no matter how scant, on the enigmatic Matilda before departing for Orval in the morning. Bérenger’s book and manuscript collection was a subject of great pride for him, and he specialized in rare books on European art and history. The others aided Maureen, searching through various volumes on the Middle Ages and sharing what tidbits they found. There was precious little written about their Tuscan countess, and virtually none of it was in English. A few antique books in Latin and Italian appeared to mention her, but without Peter here to translate quickly, they were too difficult for novice linguists to wade through.

  Maureen was scanning a British volume from the eighteenth century about Gianlorenzo Bernini when she cried out, “Here! I found something. Listen to this: ‘In 1635, Pope Urban the Eighth requested that remains of the Countess Matilda of Canossa be removed from where they had rested in the monastery of San Benedetto Po for five hundred years, and transferred to Rome. The monks from this Mantua monastery refused to relinquish Matilda, as they believed that doing so would be a violation of her last earthly wish, which was to remain near her childhood home for eternity.

  “‘However, during the new construction of Saint Peter’s, the pope commissioned Bernini to create a magnificent marble tomb and monument to the Tuscan countess. He would not be denied his prize relics and bribed the abbot at the monastery of San Benedetto with an enormous sum of money, one that would sustain the monastery and allow them to continue their good works in Matilda’s name in perpetuity. While the abbot agreed to the bribe, he could not tell his brother monks for fear that they would rebel. Thus it was that in the dead of night, specifically selected priests from the pope’s personal entourage delivered the bribe to the abbot and, like thieves on a mission, broke open her sealed, alabaster tomb.’”

  Maureen stopped reading for a moment.

  “What’s wrong, Maureen?” Bérenger was watching her face. Whatever she had just read had shaken her a bit.

  Maureen looked up at him for a moment, took a breath, then continued. “‘What they found was a perfectly intact skeleton, wrapped in gold and silver lengths of silk. Although Matilda has been depicted as an Amazon in medieval legend, the remains were those of an unusually petite woman with near-perfect teeth. Most exceptional were the long strands of hair still attached to the skull, hair of a rare red-gold color. Satisfied that this was indeed the legendary countess so coveted by their pope, they removed the contents of the casket while the monastery slept and retreated to Rome before the sun came up. Matilda of Tuscany thus became the first woman buried in Saint Peter’s, in the very heart of the church.’”

  “Well, well.” Tammy was the first to speak. “Clearly, I’m not the only one who senses a pattern here. It appears that our Matilda was a petite redhead, the most obvious and visible genetic marker of women in the Magdalene lineage, certainly the most legendary. Can we ascertain that she was an Expected One in her own right?”

  Maureen sat back in her chair. The personal aspects of her connection to Matilda were certainly fascinating and unexpected. Perhaps they even explained in some way the fish dream and her deepening need to get to Orval as soon as possible. She responded, “But I still want to know why. Why was this particular pope—Urban the Eighth—so emphatic about having Matilda’s bones there?”

  Bérenger had a theory. “Did he believe that she may have been buried with something of great importance and therefore developed a ruse to open her coffin in the dead of night? Was he searching for the Book of Love, or something other than Matilda’s bones, and that’s why it had to be done in such secrecy?”

  Something caught in the back of Maureen’s mind at that. “Was she buried with some kind of document? Some information or proof that the pope wanted?”

  They were not going to solve this mystery tonight, and there was an early start ahead of them tomorrow. Maureen was exhausted, both by jet lag and the emotional content of the day. She bid everyone good night and made her way to bed. Bérenger saw how tired she was. He kissed her gently, then held her face in his hands for a moment, gazing into her eyes before reluctantly letting her go. Thankfully, Bérenger hadn’t asked to accompany the women to Orval. Maureen had made it clear before arriving in France that she wanted to make this journey solely with Tammy. She needed to concentrate on the mission at hand, and dealing with the complex issues of her relationship with Bérenger was not conducive to her sharpest focus.

  They would return to the château following their excursion to Belgium, and then she would begin the task of rebuilding her relationship. But in that moment of fleeting intimacy, she wished he was coming with them.

  And so it was that the daughter of our Lord and Our Lady, the princess known as Sarah-Tamar, began to grow into her destiny. She had the glory of both great parents and became a leader of the people in Gaul. It is told that she had the beauty and feminine strength of her mother and could heal ailments in humans and animals with the touch of her hands, much as her father before her. Upon her birth, she was declared so beloved by God that she was laid in the same wooden crèche that once held her father.

  As she grew to be a woman, she was known to fall into trances and speak in rhythms and verses. These were taken to be great prophecies and were recorded by the scribes of the Holy Family. Through time, these prophecies have come to pass to prove her divine inspiration. Yet there are others reserved for the children of the future.

  She is not remembered by history because the persecutions of the people of the Way began in earnest as she came of age. It was necessary for her to teach in secret, and this she did until the day she died. r />
  Sarah-Tamar had many children. Some stayed in Gaul, others came to Rome and Tuscany to search for their brethren and to create safe communities during the persecutions, so that the teachings of the Way of Love would endure and spread. Look to the legends of the saints, of Barbara and Margaret, Ursula and Lucia, if you would find what has become of her legacy.

  For those with ears to hear, let them hear it.

  THE LEGEND OF SARAH-TAMAR, THE PROPHETESS,

  FROM THE LIBRO ROSSO

  The Belgian border

  present day

  TAMMY AND MAUREEN began their journey across the Belgian border and into the lush Ardennes forest, where Orval had been nestled since Matilda placed the first foundation stone there herself in 1070. It was a beautiful day for a journey into a forest that had been called enchanted for many centuries. Maureen was happily relaxed in anticipation of the adventure. The only thing that nagged at the back of her mind was that she hadn’t called Peter back yet. He was insistent that she call only if she was alone, and she hadn’t found a minute to herself. After visiting Orval later this afternoon, she vowed that she would take a solo walk and call him on her cell. Tammy would understand.

  As they headed north on the motorway, they discussed all that they did and didn’t know about the enigmatic medieval countess of Tuscany, of whom so little has been written in English.

  “We have a historical blackout where much of Matilda is concerned, partially because it happened a thousand years ago,” Tammy observed.

  “And partially because she was a woman, so her achievements would not have been readily recorded by the scribes of her time,” Maureen added.

  “We do know that the Orval prophecy—your Expected One prophecy—comes from a series of documents that were held in the monastery there, protected for centuries. And that they were part of something bigger—a whole collection of prophecies that date back to the time of Mary Magdalene herself, virtually all of which have been lost outside of those few that were preserved in the oral traditions by the Cathars or similar heretical sects. Our people.”

  “And these prophecies, we think, were written by Mary Magdalene’s daughter, her daughter with Jesus who became the little prophetess we know as Sarah-Tamar.”

  Maureen had come face-to-face with this legend and its power two years ago during her search for the lost gospel of Mary Magdalene, because the prophecy of The Expected One emanated from the ancient abbey of Orval. In discovering the Arques gospel, Maureen had learned that she was herself an Expected One, having fulfilled all the criteria of the prophecy. It was an identity she was still struggling to own. To be considered a prophetess by your peers was more than a little daunting for a woman in the twenty-first century.

  The subject of infamous prophets reminded Maureen of something Tammy had told her early in their search for the Arques gospel. “These are the same prophecies that you believe were stolen by Nostradamus? The ones that became the basis of his famous works?”

  “The very same. We know that Nostradamus was studying in Orval, as well as several other Belgian abbeys, all of which have heretical ties. And we know that when he left, documents were reported missing. And then, all of a sudden—ta-da! He wakes up one day and is a stellar prophet and publishes these remarkable predictions. So he gets points for recognizing how important the prophecies were but loses them all for declining to tell the world that they weren’t his predictions to begin with. It was the Renaissance version of plagiarism.”

  “Was it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Maureen shrugged. “I’m not sure. Something tells me there’s more to Nostradamus if he was involved here at Orval. Maybe he was one of us? Maybe…”

  Maureen dropped it as she saw the first signpost for Orval. The drive became increasingly bucolic and beautiful as the Ardennes forest thickened, enormous pines hugging the road and following the curves in a velvety green ribbon. A quaint and aged sign indicated “Abbaye d’Orval” with an arrow for a left turn. Turning that corner, both Tammy and Maureen gasped as Tammy hit the brakes. If the Abbey of Orval was designed to overwhelm the pilgrim who sees it for the first time, the architects were indeed successful. A restoration in the last century brought a modern façade featuring a deco-style madonna and child statue that was of megalithic proportions, reminding the visitor that the full name of this place had always been Notre Dame d’Orval. The enormous madonna was several stories tall, resembling nothing so much as an Egyptian goddess from an ancient temple in Luxor. The grand exterior was monumental and modern, giving almost no indication of the thousand-year-old hallowed ruins that stretched beyond it.

  The sweet girl who sold them their admission tickets gave them pamphlets in English. The girl wore the symbol of Orval around her neck—the golden fish with a wedding ring in his mouth. By the end of the day, they would have seen this symbol everywhere in the abbey and its surrounding area: on beer bottles, cheese packages, souvenirs, and café signs.

  “Hail Ichthys,” Tammy whispered to Maureen. They had discussed this clue in depth on their drive from Paris. Ichthys was certainly a reference to a fish, specifically the fish as it symbolized Jesus to early Christians.

  “You know, the Jesus fish, like the kind you see on the back of people’s cars. That’s an ichthys,” Tammy said.

  Maureen nodded. “It’s an anagram. Peter taught me that. Ichthys represents the first letters in Greek that spell out Jesus Christ, Son of God, Savior. Iota, chi, theta, upsilon, sigma. And the word itself actually means ‘fish.’ So I think we can assume that Hail Ichthys is a reference to Jesus, with maybe some nod to Greek culture or legend. This specific fish is in both our clues, so he is trying to tell us something.”

  Tammy read through the pamphlet as they made their way to the abbey ruins.

  “Whoa! Listen to this. It says, ‘Matilda gave the abbey and the region its name—Orval. While touring her lands in Lorraine, Matilda stopped to refresh herself at a natural wellspring in the forest. As she did so, her gold wedding band slipped off her hand and fell into the depths of the well. Before the good countess could become agitated at her loss, a golden trout leaped from the waters with her wedding ring in his mouth. Retrieving her ring from the obliging fish, Matilda exclaimed, “This truly is a Valley of Gold!” And the place has been called Or-Val, the Vale of Gold, ever since.’ Stop me if you’ve heard this.”

  Maureen shook her head in amazement. She had been dreaming of Orval—prior to the delivery of Matilda’s document to her hotel in New York City.

  Here you will find what you seek. Dear Lord, she hoped so.

  Tammy continued. “They claim that Matilda immediately built the monastery here as a result of the magical event with the fish, and in eternal gratitude for retrieving her wedding ring.”

  Maureen thought about it for a moment. “Yet we know that Matilda’s letter was a threat to lead an army of invasion against her hated husband. That doesn’t sound like she would have treasured her wedding ring all that much, now does it?”

  “She probably threw it in the well intentionally,” Tammy cracked. “And that damn fish kept bringing it back to her.”

  “It’s allegory,” Maureen stated. “It has to be. It’s obvious, hiding in plain sight as it is…”

  As they walked around the corner to the abbey ruins, Maureen stopped in her tracks. It was all here, just as she had dreamed it. The exquisite Gothic arches, the ruined window with the six-petaled rose cut out of the stone. She had a momentary flash that the six petals were not random, that the number meant something, but she didn’t hold on to the thought. Even the light as it filtered through the tree branches was exactly the same as she had dreamed it.

  “This is it. Exactly. Come on, I have to find her.” Maureen grabbed Tammy and ran through the ruins. She retraced the steps from her dream, noticing the ruined marble hunks on the ground as she passed, moving through the remains of a doorway. Ahead of her in the niche of the wall was the sweet little madonna.

  “Ther
e she is.” Maureen walked slower now, approaching the statue with a type of reverence. The statue was even more beautiful—and whimsical—in person. Her face was distinct and special—wide-set eyes and a high forehead emphasized both intelligence and innocence. The stone girl was dressed simply in a robe with a veil; long braids carved in the rock fell along the sides of her head. She was clearly a child, a little girl holding a baby that was most certainly not her own. Maureen gazed in silence, until Tammy broke it with a whisper.

  “What did she say to you in the dream?”

  “She said, ‘I am not who you think I am.’”

  “So who do you think she is?”

  Maureen smiled, feeling a strange communion with the little girl depicted in the statue. It was like seeing an old friend again. “I know who she is. She’s Sarah-Tamar, and the baby is her little brother, the baby Yeshua. This whole place, we think it was built as a monument by Matilda to the bloodline family, right? And whose prophecies were held here? Sarah-Tamar’s. She would be represented here.”

  Tammy was piecing it together. “Let’s go back to that allegory.”

  “Okay. Think about the story.” Maureen hypothesized out loud. “A fish, which symbolizes Jesus—the ichthys—leaps from the depths of a well. Now first we start with the fact that Jesus taught in this same way, right? He taught through parables, storytelling with symbolism.”

  “So you think that Hail Ichthys is to remind us that there are layers to the story here? That it’s a type of parable?”

  “Exactly! Now, the well is an ancient symbol of secret knowledge. And our fish holds a wedding ring in his mouth. Look around you, that symbol is everywhere. Jesus, the ichthys, is emerging from the depths of secrecy to show the world his wedding ring. Every telling of the story emphasizes that the ring is a wedding ring. And he places it securely in Matilda’s hand, because Matilda is trustworthy and will protect it. It all just seems so obvious. And this is a vale of gold because it is here that all the knowledge of his family is kept, knowledge that is worth more than gold. The entire story is an allegory for what Matilda knew and how she preserved it.”