The Book of Love (49 page)

Barberini was reading Peter’s thoughts apparently, as he continued, “You will simply have to trust me until I can tell you more, my boy. For now, I have come to talk to you about our founder. The great and very holy Saint Ignatius de Loyola.”

Peter’s gut reaction to the question “Why did you become a Jesuit?” had been one word: knowledge. The Jesuits had always been the great educators and educated, and his personal passion was studying the history of religion and spirituality and of ancient language and wisdom. He lived to teach and had missed his true vocation terribly since relocating to Rome to participate on the Magdalene committee. Ignatius de Loyola was the founder of the university here, and he was a pillar of education, both religious and humanist. As such, Peter knew his biography well, as all good Jesuit priests did. Loyola came from a Basque family in northern Spain, where he was born on Christmas Eve of 1491, the youngest child of thirteen. He was low-level nobility but high enough to live an early life of leisure. He was something of a playboy and a gambler in his youth, becoming an army officer at the age of thirty.

At Pamplona, Ignatius was struck by a cannonball in the battle to save the territory from the encroaching French. One leg was broken and the other injured by the blow. The broken leg healed so badly that it had to be broken again and reset, all of which was done with no anesthetic. Loyola healed, but the broken leg was shorter than the other,
and he walked with a terrible limp for the rest of his life. His descent into disability inspired a new interest in intellectual pursuits, with reading and acquiring knowledge above all others. During his rehabilitation, he read every book that was available at the castle in Loyola; they were all religious in theme.

There is some mystery surrounding Ignatius during his time in Loyola. Who supplied him with the books and what, specifically, was he reading? There were rumors that during this period he fell deeply in love with a mystery woman, a woman with copper hair and royal blood who nursed him tenderly and had an enormous impact upon him during his lengthy convalescence. By the time he recovered enough to walk and travel in March of 1522, he was an entirely new man, fueled by a feverish spiritual intensity.

Loyola’s first act upon his rehabilitation was to make a pilgrimage to the Monastery of Saint Mary of Montserrat, high in the mountains north of Barcelona. It was said that, obeying the rules of chivalry in regard to Our Lady, he knelt in all-night vigil before the altar of the Black Madonna. Some accounts said that he did this for three consecutive nights in honor of the trinity. At the end of his vigil, he placed all his weapons on the altar before the madonna and pledged that he would become a new warrior for her Way.

Barberini interrupted Peter’s thoughts with an abrupt question. “When did Loyola go to Montserrat?”

“March 1522.”

“Correct. What day in March?”

“The Feast Day of the Annunciation. March twenty-fifth.”

“Wrong.”

Peter was startled by this. Every Jesuit knew that date. Barberini acknowledged this, and continued. “He made his pledge to Notre Dame on March twenty-fifth, that is true. But this was after three days of prayer and meditation. He arrived on a specific date for a specific reason.”

Peter answered, trying to make it all fit in his brain as it was happening. “March twenty-second.”

Barberini nodded.

“But why?” Peter understood, in theory, that this date held heretical importance in terms of births and prophecies. But he wasn’t sure what the connection was specifically here. Barberini prompted him.

“Are you aware of anything—a controversial and priceless document, perhaps—that may have come to the monastery of Montserrat?”

It hit Peter like a blow to the back of the head. Montserrat was the final known resting place of the authentic manuscript of the Book of Love, the document that was written in the very hand of our Lord and delivered to Europe by his wife and beloved—his beloved Mary Magdalene, who was depicted in the image at Montserrat, holding his child. Peter knew this, but he certainly hadn’t connected the Book of Love to Loyola before. He had assumed their dual association with Montserrat was…a coincidence. He knew better, but how could he have possibly put these two potentially conflicting ideas in the same place?

Peter nodded his understanding as Barberini continued.

“The final massacre of the Cathar stronghold at Montségur happened on March sixteenth, 1244. It took the surviving four refugees six days to reach Montserrat and safety. March twenty-second is the anniversary of the arrival and installation of the Holy Word of Jesus Christ at the monastery. Loyola’s vigil—and his indoctrination—began on that night for a reason.”

Peter asked the next question very slowly and carefully. “What are you saying? Are you telling me that Loyola was a heretic? That he founded our order for entirely different reasons than anyone understands? That he…had access to the Book of Love?”

“He called it the Society of Jesus, didn’t he? Of course, that could mean anything, but it’s a trifle unimaginative otherwise, isn’t it? Does Loyola strike you as a man who would create a revolutionary new religious order and then give it a name that did not perfectly represent what he stood for? But if he was working from teachings that were directly from Jesus and not from other sources, well…that would account for it, wouldn’t it? And remember at all times these words that were immortalized in the writings of his closest friend, Luís Gonçalves
de Câmara. He said,
‘Ignatius was always inclined toward love. Moreover, he seemed to embody all love, and because of that he was universally loved by all. There was no one in the Society who did not have much great love for him and did not consider himself much loved by him.’
Strangely, the Church does not preserve this portrait of our Loyola, do they?”

Peter was stunned. The traditional perspective on Loyola’s character was that he was a stern, harsh, and taciturn man. He may have been brilliant and devout, but
loving
was not the first adjective that sprang to mind when one studied his biography. To be reminded that the closest person who ever wrote about Ignatius Loyola wanted to preserve just how much he was inclined toward love, that he “seemed to embody all love” was a revelation.

“So does this mean that Loyola had the Book of Love? Was it in Montserrat as late as 1522?” This would certainly be valuable information, given that all other references to the original document disappeared after 1244.

Barberini leaned over to pat Peter on the shoulder and then used him as a crutch to stand up. “My bones ache from the walk across the river, my boy. So for now we shall have to end this chat, but I’m so happy that we had it. Oh, and one more thing…”

Peter helped Barberini lift his aging, pudgy body out of the pew as the elder man delivered the last shock. “The committee is going to make an announcement about the Magdalene material. It will happen in the next week. But you must go to France with your cousin in the meantime, so Tómas and I will keep you posted as the developments occur.

“They are going to authenticate the Arques Gospel and release it to the public, or so they tell me. Maureen shall be vindicated if this happens. And so, my boy, shall you. But most of all…our Lady’s story will finally be told, and it will be told in its truth and its entirety. May God grant that it be so.”

Watching the older man waddle out of the church, Peter whispered in echo of Barberini’s parting words.

“May God grant that it be so.”

Chartres, France
present day

C
hartres Cathedral can be viewed from more than twenty miles away, perched as it is atop its sacred hillock, with the mismatched spires on either side of the western portal rising over the plain of La Beauce. Maureen, Peter, and Bérenger remarked on the beauty of it when they arrived via chauffeur-driven car early on June 20. Bérenger had arranged for them to be picked up upon arrival at Orly Airport just outside Paris.

Maureen was first to comment on the power of the place, as she could feel it in her bones when they were still miles away. There was indeed a magic that radiated from it. The two men in her company had been to this place before and were not experiencing it from the same fresh perspective. Maureen ran her hands over her arms as the goose bumps covered her flesh.

After they checked into their charming hotel on the edge of the town square, they set out to make the short walk up the hill toward the cathedral. Their goal was to get the lay of the land, to determine where, exactly, window 10 was located, and to get a first glimpse of the labyrinth. Tammy and Roland were driving up from the Languedoc to join them.

Maureen caught her breath as she stood before the cathedral for the first time. It was the most majestic building she had ever seen. She insisted on walking around the cathedral in its entirety before going inside, taking in the enormity of the place and the exquisite decoration that covered virtually every inch of the exterior in elaborate bas-relief and statuary. It was breathtaking. Here was a monument of unequaled beauty, a testament to the power and grace of human accomplishment born out of heart and spirit. Bérenger Sinclair acted as impromptu guide, knowing a fair amount about the esoteric nature of Chartres from his own studies. He took Peter and Maureen around to the left of the cathedral, to the northern side, called the Door of the Initiates, and showed them some of the more famous statues—those of the patriarchs. But it was not the sculptures of Moses and Abraham and David that grabbed Maureen’s attention. Instead, it was her immediate observation that this church was covered with women. Some were obvious; there appeared Judith, the Old Testament heroine who saves her people, there was Mother Mary in the annunciation and with her cousin Elizabeth in the visitation, and there was a sequence of the Queen of Sheba coming to Solomon, each crowned with an elaborate sculpture of the original Temple. Others were not easily identifiable, but there were sequences with women covering much of the northern façade.

Bérenger informed them, “There are several hundred images of women on this church, and over one hundred seventy believed to be of the Great Mary, the Mother Mary. No other church in the world has so many depictions of females; nothing even comes close.”

Maureen was mesmerized by all that she saw but stopped in admiration before the magnificent sculpture of a woman that was installed on an external pillar of an arch on the far right of the door. She was young and beautiful and carried a book in one hand, while the other, though damaged by eight hundred years of weather and war, appeared to be raised in benediction.

Bérenger smiled at her. “I knew you would love her. So do I. Of the thousand or more images on this cathedral, this is the one I obsessed over from the very first day I arrived here. And now that we know Mat
ilda’s story so well, I am beginning to see why this particular lady has always been special to me. Maureen, meet Modesta. She is the patron spirit of this place.”

Maureen felt an unexpected surge of tears behind her eyes at the mention of Matilda. She knew that her heart and spirit would be inextricably connected to her Tuscan countess forever.

“Modesta’s is a tragic but important story,” Bérenger said, pointing up at the saint.

“Of course it is.” Maureen went and stood under the statue of Modesta, whose feet hit above Maureen’s head. The scale and size of Chartres was deceptive owing to the expert use of perspective. It was easy to lose sight of just exactly how enormous—and exquisitely detailed—all the artwork was unless it was examined very closely.

Modesta’s face was lovely and serene; her long hair flowed beneath a veil. The book in her left hand appeared beautifully bound. Maureen commented, “I am noticing that many of these figures are holding books.”

Peter explained, “Traditionally, that symbolizes the Word. Scripture. The gospels. It is common in Christian art.”

Maureen tried not to be irritated when Peter gave her typical, obvious explanations, automatically recited from his entrenched perspective as a priest. She knew, of course, what the traditional symbolism of the book was. She also knew that it was necessary to look at all these works of art with new eyes, given that they had fresh information regarding them. Could there be another reason that these characters, particularly so many women, were holding books? Could this be a different book, a specific reference to the Book of Love? She rolled her eyes at Peter and turned to Bérenger.

“Tell me what you know about Modesta.”

“The common legend in the guidebooks says that she was the virgin daughter of a very cruel and intolerant Roman governor called Quirinus, who was sent to Chartres specifically to quell the growing cult of Christianity. But by all accounts Modesta was a loving young woman who was horrified by the persecution of the Christians and began to help them. For example, she would alert them when her father was go
ing to raid their secret places of worship, one of which was here where the cathedral is now. It is said that during this time Modesta fell in love with a young man named Potentian, who converted her wholly to Christianity. When Governor Quirinus discovered that his daughter had converted and was betraying him to her Christian brethren, he had her publicly tortured as an example of his zero-tolerance policy. Even the governor’s own daughter was not safe from the might of Rome. She was decapitated and her body was thrown into the deep well that is in the crypt here, and this is why she is often called the guardian spirit of this place. It is said that she can be heard in the crypt, whispering secrets from its depths for those with ears to hear.”

Maureen shivered at the story, sensing immediately that there was more to Modesta’s biography than she was currently grasping.

Bérenger noticed. “What is it?”

Maureen looked back up at the sculpture of the serenely beautiful woman clutching her book. She shook her head slowly. “There’s more. As important and tragic as that story is, it isn’t the whole story. I just know that somehow.”

The mention of the crypt, with its well, had her attention at the moment. Perhaps if she could get in there, Modesta would whisper its secrets to her.

“Can we go into the crypt?”

Bérenger shook his head. “Unfortunately not. It is not open to the public, except once a day when a very brief guided tour is given in French at eleven a.m. I have often wondered why, precisely, the Church doesn’t want average citizens in the crypt. The well is covered, so it cannot be for safety reasons. The black madonna that is on display in the crypt, Our Lady of Under the Earth, is a copy of the one that was burned during the Revolution, so it is not to protect any ancient relics. But for some reason…the crypt is off-limits to the general public.”

They continued to explore the perimeter and Maureen lost count of all the female figures on the exterior of the church, while noticing that Saint Anne, the grandmother of Jesus, was also well and prominently represented. Most significantly, she held a place of power at the grand Door of the Initiates. Walking around the back and up along
the south entrance, where the doors were bolted shut, they found that the primary, central figure was a beautiful thirteenth-century statue of Christ, a sculpture known as
Christ the Teacher
. In his left hand he held a beautiful and ornate book. Maureen shot Peter a look but said nothing. Funny that Christ was shown holding books so often, yet the Church contended that he never wrote one of his own.

Maureen was busy taking mental notes of elements that had esoteric meaning. The apostles were depicted here in statuary, perched upon beautiful, twisted columns. She had learned in reading everything she could get her hands on about Solomon and Sheba that the wise king himself had created the first twisted columns to decorate his own legendary temple, and that such architectural details were a nod to his genius. Also on this side of the cathedral, on the archivolt over the portal, were the signs of the zodiac, in order. Maureen sighed as she looked at these. It was frustrating trying to grasp the details of Chartres in such a short time. It would literally take years to see and appreciate every single detail on the exterior of this place, so vast was it and so grand the art that covered the exterior. Maureen observed to no one in particular, “I think the greatest art gallery in the world just may be outside for all to view, and has been for eight hundred years.”

They walked full circle now, back to the front of the cathedral. This was the western entrance known as the Royal Portal. There were several men who appeared to be homeless on the steps, holding out scallop shells and requesting offerings. One was standing at the top of the stairs and singing in French; another was huddled close to the door, looking the worse for wear. Bérenger dropped euro notes discreetly into both shells as he passed. Maureen noticed, and she added her own contributions. The singing man pulled a wildflower from his pocket and handed it to her with a wink.

Both Bérenger and Maureen paused, Peter behind them, to examine the statuary that greeted them on the right of the western door. Was it a coincidence that the primary entrance doors to Chartres Cathedral contained sculptures of King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba? It seemed that the epic lovers were quite well represented here.

The three of them entered the narthex through the enormous doors and went immediately to the gift shop on the left to purchase a plan of the cathedral, which would identify window 10 in the stained glass. The shop was full of books and art prints of the sculptures and the windows, but the superstar of Chartres Cathedral was the Blue Madonna, the twelfth-century stained glass masterpiece known as Our Lady of the Beautiful Window. She existed here in posters, greeting cards, and bookmarks. And yet despite her omnipresence in the gift shop, she was not diminished. There was something intense and powerful about the image, something in the purity of the art that transcended the commerce.

Maureen did not begrudge the cathedral its merchandising. That this monument to the love of God was available to the public every day at no charge was a gift to the world. If selling postcards and posters of the artwork helped to maintain and preserve it, so much the better. The three of them made their contributions to the coffers, buying guidebooks and maps. Peter set out to find window 10, leaving Bérenger and Maureen alone at the entrance to one of the great shrines of human history.

Maureen took a deep breath and allowed herself to enter the nave of this, the grandest cathedral in the world. It was awe inspiring in its enormity, and yet there was a strange and beautiful intimacy about it. While the lofty vaulting and the hundreds of tons of stone should have been completely overwhelming, the overall atmosphere of Chartres was welcoming and warm. It was also entirely…holy. That was the only word that Maureen could think of as she allowed herself to be dazzled by the colors of the stained glass that lined the nave in two stories, one on top of the other. She read in the guidebook that Napoleon’s famous comment, upon entering this cathedral for the first time, was “Chartres is no place for an atheist.”

No place indeed.

“Look behind you,” Bérenger said. “And up.”

Maureen sighed over the beauty of the sight. The enormous western rose window and the three lancet windows below it, installed origi
nally in the twelfth century along with the ubiquitous Blue Madonna, glittered in the afternoon sun. These were the oldest original windows in Chartres, and they were special. While the glass throughout is magnificent, these specific windows predated the others by almost a century. Their grace and color were unequaled by anything that Maureen had ever seen in any other church. The rose windows in Notre Dame de Paris were gorgeous and grand, but there was something happening here in Chartres that was exceptional. The three lancets below the rose all radiated the same powerful essence.

Bérenger explained in hushed tones, “It’s the blue. It has never been duplicated in any other church in the world. It’s called Chartres blue because it is unique to this place. No one has ever been able to determine just exactly what it was that the glaziers used when they were creating these windows. The other window from this time period was recently restored. It’s the Blue Madonna. She’s over there…”

Bérenger did not complete his sentence as he saw the stricken look on Maureen’s face. Immediately he understood and nodded solemnly. As they were viewing the windows over the door, they had walked between several rows of moveable chairs. Maureen looked down and realized that they were standing in the middle of the labyrinth, that most sacred symbol created by Jesus’ and Solomon’s combination of extraordinary wisdom and faith.

The sacred symbol that was completely obstructed and damaged by the rows of chairs that covered it.

Maureen sat down, quickly, thinking she was going to be sick. She was suddenly very, very dizzy.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded, but there were tears in her eyes. The impact of seeing the labyrinth littered with chairs was something she was unprepared for. She knew to expect it, but she had no frame of reference for how it would make her feel—the anger, the indignation. She said simply, “How could they?”

Bérenger had no answer. He had spent most of his eventful life asking that same question over and over again.

Peter approached them, waiving the guidebook. He stopped when he saw Maureen’s face and nodded.

“I know,” he said. “Oddly, I have always felt that way about the labyrinth being covered like this, even before I knew just exactly what it was and why it mattered so much. But on a happier note, I have found window ten.”