The Book of Love (6 page)

But now he had a new complication. Maureen was on the verge of another spiritual breakthrough, whether she knew it yet herself or not. Peter had watched this all happen before: the increase in the visionary dreams that led to a rapid series of synchronistic circumstances, all of which were inexplicable outside of divine intervention. Such events had led Maureen to the Magdalene gospel two years ago. So here she was having the dreams again, and this time Jesus was quoting scripture to her.

Be ye therefore perfect.

The line was from Matthew, chapter five. It was a commandment from the Sermon on the Mount that followed the instruction to love your enemies and bless those that curse you. Certainly, this was foundational to Christianity, but what did it mean in the context of her dream?

Stranger still was this line:
You must awaken while in this body, for everything exists in it.
Peter knew the context of that sentence immedi
ately. It was from one of the controversial Gnostic Gospels that were discovered in Egypt in 1945. He knew with certainty that it came from the Gospel of Philip. He was even more certain which line came next within the ancient text:
Resurrect in this life.
He had participated in a number of heated debates over the meaning of these lines while living in Jerusalem in the earlier days of his Jesuit studies. Part of the controversy over the Gnostic material came from this very idea that life on earth, here and now and with an emphasis on this body, was as important as the afterlife. Perhaps more important. This was a concept not generally embraced by orthodox Catholicism for obvious reasons; some would assert that it was heretical. Yet it was key in the Gnostic texts. Peter had long been fascinated by the Gnostic perspective, and he argued with his more conservative brethren that the fact that these gospels had not been altered, dissected, edited, and translated to death over the last two thousand years made them pure and ultimately worthy of serious consideration. The opponents of the Gnostic material took the position that they were written too many generations after the life of Jesus to be considered valid, given that some of them were dated to the mid-third century.

Peter thought it was unfortunate to the point of tragic that the Church had taken such a harsh position against the importance of the Gnostic codices. Why was it always black and white, either/or? Why did the Gnostic Gospels have to stand in opposition to the canon? Could they not be read together, as complements to each other, to see what greater learning they might take us to about who Jesus was and what he was trying to teach us?

Maureen was dreaming about Jesus again, and the Lord himself was quoting from both the canonical and Gnostic Gospels. Fascinating. And given her history, it was very likely significant in ways he could not even dream of yet.

And now, there was a pair of medieval scrolls to consider.

Peter wouldn’t have time to consider them much longer. Maggie waddled into the room, flustered as she always was when a high-ranking member of the clergy had business with Peter.

“Father Girolamo rang. He says he needs to see you in his office immediately on business, something regarding Cardinal DeCaro and an ancient document.”

Confraternity of the Holy Apparition
Vatican City
present day

F
ATHER
G
IROLAMO DE
P
AZZI
was tired, with the kind of bone-weary exhaustion that comes from a very long life given in service to something more important than one’s own comfort. In his case, that service was to the Immaculate Heart of the Blessed Virgin Mary through his tireless dedication to the Confraternity of the Holy Apparition. His public work focused on understanding the visions and visionaries who had been sanctified by the Church as authentic over five hundred years.

But his private work had a different focus. Behind closed doors, he was preoccupied with another, more intriguing kind of prophet—or more accurately, prophet
ess
. This was a lineage of women, connected by blood and birth rights, who through time had experienced visions of exceptional clarity and power. They had been called by different titles through history, some more heretical than others. They were known alternately as Magdalenes, shepherdesses, black madonnas, popesses, and Expected Ones. Father Girolamo studied the details of their biographies; some of them were scant in their antiquity, like the elusive Sarah-Tamar and Modesta; others were well documented, like Teresa of Ávila. He combed through their lives in search of the answer to the questions that burned within him:

Why?
Why was it that these particular women were gifted in such a way by the Lord?

And
what? What
was it that they knew that was out of the reach of even the holiest of men?

He looked down at the aged manuscript that covered his desk, the one that preoccupied his days and his nights. It had once been in the highly prized personal collection of Pope Urban VIII, and it contained a series of prophecies. Written like poetry, the verses—sometimes in French, sometimes Italian—had been committed to paper over many generations. Because the verses were quatrains, consisting of four lines each, some scholars before him had credited these verses to the famous French prophet Nostradamus. Indeed, this manuscript had been filed in the Biblioteca Apostolica as the work of Nostradamus for a hundred years until Father Girolamo rescued it. He knew that this document was potentially priceless, and certainly not the work of one author. Rather, it was a work that appeared to span centuries. And while the verses had been translated over and over again, he still did not have the key to their true meanings. The quatrains were written in a type of code, a prophetic language that could not be interpreted except by those who were born to comprehend it.

And still, he tried. He took the lines apart, one by one, for hours at a time. There was a specific prophecy that had become an obsession for him, the French one that began with “
Les temps revient
.” The time returns.

Father Girolamo studied the page, willing the meaning of the phrase and the prophecy which followed to come to him. In one hand he clutched a lovely and delicate crystal case, shaped like a locket, which contained the relic of a visionary. He prayed that the reliquary would aid him in his translation, but thus far the words had not revealed their secrets to him.

The old priest sighed and sat back from his task. While Father Girolamo was based in Rome and had been for the majority of his long life, his confraternity had had its origins in Tuscany, in the Middle Ages. Today he felt as though he had been running it since the Middle Ages. Yet there was more work to be done, and he had another document that must occupy his time for the moment. Gently, he replaced the book of prophecies in the locked drawer that was its secret resting place.

Peter Healy was on his way over, and Father Girolamo must be prepared to address him regarding this fascinating new development.

Peter stood before the enormous tapestry that covered one wall of the confraternity’s private offices. It was created in the Netherlands in the late fifteenth century, as were the more famous unicorn tapestries that were now housed in museums in New York City and Paris. This one, called
The Killing of the Unicorn
, illustrated an elaborate hunting sequence. The mythical beast was surrounded by hunters wielding lances, and several in the hunting party were thrusting their spears into the trapped creature’s body. The unicorn bled profusely from those wounds, and others inflicted by the hounds which were viciously tearing at its flesh. A trumpeter announced the death of the beast with great ceremony and celebration, in the foreground of the textile. While the tapestry was a masterwork of Flemish craftsmanship, the subject matter might appear disturbing to the uninitiated.

“Profoundly beautiful, no?” Father Girolamo de Pazzi’s voice, raspy with nearly seven decades of preaching, greeted Peter as he entered the room behind him.

Peter nodded, smiling in greeting. “I have always loved the unicorn tapestries. This one is harsh, but it is beautiful.”

“The death of our Lord was harsh, and that is what this work of art is meant to remind us. He died for our sins, in a terrible way.” The old priest waved away the lesson. “But that is nothing you do not already know, for you are wise and learned beyond your years. Come in to my study, Peter. There is something I need to show you.”

Peter followed the old priest in comfortable silence. Since coming to Rome, Father Girolamo had befriended Peter. They met via Maggie Cusack, who was the most committed member of the elder man’s confraternity. While Peter had spent a fair amount of time in Girolamo’s presence, he had never been here, to the inner sanctum of the confraternity offices. This was a private place, and as the old man closed the
door behind them, Peter knew that there was a secret about to be revealed here. It no longer surprised him. He had come to the understanding that Vatican City was built on secrets, with secrets, by secrets, and for secrets.

Resting in a central place on Father Girolamo’s antique desk was the document Maureen had received in New York. Peter wasn’t clear on what was happening here; he had not given the document to
this
priest. He had given it to Tómas Cardinal DeCaro, his mentor.

“Sit.” It was a gentle command, and Peter took his seat across the desk from the old man. “You brought this document to Tómas, and he has brought it to me. He would be here himself but he is in Siena on Church business. But he trusts me, and so can you. Now, here is why he brought it to me. I am a Tuscan. And my passion through eighty years of life has been the study of Tuscan history and how it relates to the Church. And so when this rare and important document surfaced, our friend knew that I would understand its import. And I do. This relates to the grand contessa Matilda Toscana. Matilda of Tuscany. Do you know who she is?”

Peter shook his head.

“You will now. Tell me, how many times have you been inside the Basilica of Saint Peter?”

Peter shrugged. “I don’t know. Hundreds.”

“Then you have walked past Countess Matilda hundreds of times. She is buried in a place of honor, under a great marble tomb designed by the Baroque master Bernini and within fifty meters of the first apostle himself.”

“She’s buried inside the basilica?” Peter was incredulous. He had no idea that any woman was buried in Saint Peter’s, much less in a place of such enormous honor. “Why?”

Father Girolamo gave a small, soundless laugh. “That depends on whom you ask. But as you are asking me, I will tell you that it is because she was a pious woman and generous donor to the Church who left all her property to the pope.”

“Why do you think someone sent Maureen a document about this Countess Matilda?”

“I have deep concerns about the intentions of the person or persons who sent such a document anonymously, and until we can determine identity or intention, it is critical that we stay very close on this.”

“You think this is dangerous?”

The old man nodded. “I do. Peter, you are one of the finest linguistic scholars that the Jesuits have ever produced. You did not deliver this document for translation. You already know what it says. Am I correct?”

Peter nodded. “I was hoping to have it authenticated, just to be sure.”

“It is indeed authentic. Which is why it concerns me. Be very careful here, my son. I know that such a gift may appear benevolent, but I do not believe that it is. I believe that someone may be using your cousin. Tómas believes this too, which is why he came to me.”

“Using her in what way?”

“Think, Peter. Our friend Tómas came to me because, in addition to being Tuscan, I am also an expert in visionary experience. And if there is one thing I have learned over my many years of study, it is this: true visionaries are born, not made. You can’t aspire to it or study to be one. You are or you are not, and there is nothing in between. Therefore an authentic prophet, or prophetess, is both rare and valuable. And your cousin is something of a celebrity here, as you know.”

Peter smiled. Maureen was mostly notorious within the walls of Vatican City, where she was a curiosity—a heretic and a renegade, and worse still, a woman—but also a force that could not be entirely discounted. She had, after all, made the most remarkable Christian discovery of the era as a result of following her dreams and visions.

“So whether or not the more conservative elders of the Church approve of your cousin makes no difference. The undeniable fact is that her visions have led her to achievements that are unmatched. I believe that someone is using her as a result—to find the book that is referenced in that document. And once it is found, I don’t believe they will want her around to tell the tale of its existence. She must take extreme care, and so must you.”

The old priest sat deep in thought, eyes closed, for so long that Peter
feared he had fallen asleep. When he opened his ancient eyes finally, they were clear and bright with intention.

“Peter, I need you to keep me posted on your cousin’s movements in relation to this document, and certainly inform me if she has any further contact from this…source. I promise you, it is for her own protection. And yours.”

Peter assured him that he would do so. But the old priest’s words of warning had rattled him and he was anxious to get out of there and call Maureen, who would be arriving in France momentarily.

“Now go with God, my boy. And may his blessed mother watch over you on your journey.”

The Languedoc
France, present day

M
aureen was starting to feel the tension rising in her body as they drew closer to their destination. The drive took well over an hour, allowing time for her to catch up with Tammy on all the events and their mutual research over the past few days. They talked through clues and theorized on possible sources for the documents.

“Bérenger is very uneasy about all of this,” Tammy explained. “As fascinating as it is, he doesn’t like feeling that he is out of control of this situation, and it concerns him that none of us have been able to come up with a substantial theory as to who is leading this heretical scavenger hunt.”

“Whoever it is knows a lot about both Bérenger and me. That’s certainly disconcerting. But they also know what’s occurring in my dreams, which is completely beyond explanation. Therefore, it’s either something divinely inspired…”

“Or something truly sinister.”

“Yeah, thanks for that reassurance. Because I wasn’t nervous enough already.”

Even without the recent, unexplainable events, returning to Arques today had Maureen on edge. This was where she had discovered the
Magdalene Gospel, where she had both endured and enjoyed an adventure that was beyond the imagination of most. But it was also the home of Bérenger Sinclair, and that fact brought with it a whole series of complications.

Tammy took a detour through Montségur for lunch because she knew that Maureen loved this part of France. It was one of the earth’s great places of spirit, and the location of the last stand of the Cathar people against the armies of a Church determined to exterminate the entire culture. Maureen knew this story well, having spent some memorable hours learning about the legacy of Montségur on her last visit to France.

By the end of 1243 the Cathars had suffered nearly fifty years of torture by the Inquisition. The populations of entire cities had been eradicated until the streets very literally ran red with the blood of these innocent people. One of the last Cathar strongholds left in France was Montségur, the castle located forty miles or so from where the Château des Pommes Bleues was located in Arques. For nearly half a year, the last French Cathars were sequestered together in the fortress of Montségur.

Languedoc legend said that four members of the Cathar party were able to escape Montségur two days before the remaining population were captured and burned alive for heresy. It was told that one of these, a young girl called
La Paschalina
, “the little Paschal Lamb,” carried a priceless object strapped to her body—the Book of Love. This girl was instrumental in the protection of the most sacred treasure of their people. She was also Maureen’s ancestor, and the source whence the name Paschal came.

As they took their leave of the ruins of the mountain fortress, Maureen whispered a prayer of thanks to her brave ancestress, and Tammy joined in on another for the two hundred souls who perished in the flames on March 16, 1244.

They headed into Couiza to take the turn in the direction of Arques as Maureen’s cell phone interrupted their conversation. She answered with anticipation when she realized that it was Peter, calling from his office in Rome.

“I have some important info to share with you. Are you alone?”

“Tammy is with me. We’re on our way to the château.”

Peter made a slight, irritated noise, then cleared his throat and continued. “Right. The document. It’s dated 1071 and is signed by Matilda, as the countess of Tuscany.”

“What does the document say?”

“It’s a demand letter of sorts, from a very angry and imperious Countess Matilda, requesting the return of her ‘most precious red book’ immediately, and at the risk of her personally leading an army of invasion and even threatening a ‘holy war’—against her own husband, whom she clearly despises.”

“A precious red book? It’s the Book of Love, isn’t it?”

“I have reason to believe that it is, or at the very least a copy of it. The letter insists that the book be put immediately into the custody of someone named Patricio, who is the abbot of the monastery…in Orval. Maureen, this is important as it is possibly the only authenticated evidence that such a book ever existed.”

“And it is last known to be in Orval. And Orval is where we’re headed tomorrow.”

Peter interrupted her before she could continue. “You need to be very careful. I think this is dangerous. There’s more, but I will need you to call me later, when you’re alone.”

“Okay.” She was trying not to be irritated, but Peter’s refusal to share all his information because Tammy was in the car just increased her discomfort. She would have to find a way to bridge this gap and get them all on the same team again. She needed all of them, and they would have to work together and learn to trust each other again.

After all, they were searching for something called the Book of Love. Wasn’t it time for everyone to find some forgiveness? Could she?

Tammy activated the remote control to open the gates, and they drove up the serpentine path to the magnificent château. Maureen caught her breath at the sight of it; she had forgotten just how grand and beau
tiful it truly was. Strangely, though she had only spent two weeks of her life here, this return suddenly felt like a homecoming to her. She did love this place and the people attached to it.

The front door flew open as the car pulled to a stop, and Roland came bounding out. The huge grin splitting his angular face made him look unusually boyish as he lifted Tammy off her feet in an enormous hug. She was laughing that deep, throaty laugh that Roland loved as he kissed her soundly, if quickly, for the sake of decorum. Releasing Tammy, he stood before Maureen to take her hands in his and kiss her on both cheeks in a more formal European greeting.

“It is our great joy to have you back with us, my lady.”

For Roland, Maureen was more than a friend or a visitor. She was an honored guest, and one who had accomplished something monumental in his eyes. She would always be the woman who had found the Magdalene Gospel, and that set her above mere mortals. He treated her with a respect that bordered on reverence.

It was too much for an exhausted and overwrought Maureen. When she opened her mouth to reply to him, the words would not come out. Her voice was trapped in her throat, caught on a sob that had been building for the better part of two years.

Dispensing with the formalities, Maureen threw herself against this gentle giant who was her friend, a great man who treated her in a way that she was sure she did not deserve, and cried as though her heart would break.

She was home.

Bérenger Sinclair had watched the car make its way toward the house. He could not know that the fear and trepidation he was feeling—fear of rejection, anxiety over the initial moments of meeting—was identical to what Maureen was experiencing. He did not come down immediately to greet her. He chose to wait and gauge her reaction to Roland and the environment, hoping it would prepare him for whatever she
might be feeling. He had not expected the emotional outpouring that had come with her arrival. Neither had she.

Roland and Tammy escorted Maureen to her favorite room in the château, the Magdalene room, to give her time to settle down and prepare before dinner. The exquisite bedroom, well suited for a queen, was draped in crimson velvets and took its name from the Ribera painting,
Magdalene in the Desert
, that dominated one wall. Today the room was filled with the heady scent of Casablanca lilies. The copious white blooms spilled out of crystal vases throughout the room.

The tap on her door an hour later was gentle, causing Maureen to think it was one of the housekeepers coming to alert her to dinner. She was ready, having changed into evening dress and repaired the makeup that had been smeared by the crying jag. Opening the door, she stopped cold. Bérenger Sinclair leaned against the door frame, tall and beautiful and smiling at her with such warmth that she could only wonder just what defect in her psyche had made her behave like such an unforgiving idiot.

She only had to wonder for a moment. After that, she was in his arms as the world melted away around them.

They were very nearly late for dinner, but it was Maureen who came to her senses and called a halt to their unexpectedly passionate reunion.

Bérenger was the essence of chivalry, even as he ran his hands through the silken copper strands of her hair, relishing her physical presence. It was with reluctance that he agreed to go downstairs, where he would have to share her company.

She was here. For now, that would have to be enough.

Dinner passed companionably as Maureen answered all the curious questions about her life since the release of the book. She relaxed
quickly, contented to be in the presence of these three people whom she trusted entirely. Everyone had a story to tell; there was much catching up to do on all sides. By dessert, the topic had turned to the legend of the Book of Love and how it had been preserved in the Languedoc.

Bérenger took the lead. “The Book of Love is the gospel, the good news, as written by Jesus himself. It represents his true teachings in their purest form. His parables, his prayers, his commandments. Everything we as human beings need in order to find God through the Way of Love.”

“It is everything we need to know to become perfect,” Roland explained. “In Cathar tradition, those who reached an exalted level of understanding these teachings were called
perfecti
, or
parfait
, in French, one who had become perfect. That doesn’t mean ‘perfect’ in the sense that we know it today. It means that they had learned to live entirely as love expressed, through love and without judgment. That is the end goal of Jesus’ teachings. In becoming beings who love, we are modeling our lives after our father in heaven, who
is
love.”

Maureen was still for a moment before responding. She had not yet shared this part of her dream with Roland and Bérenger, yet they seemed to grasp it already. “Be ye therefore perfect.”

“Exactly,” Bérenger said. “Thankfully, some of the true teachings did make it into the canonical gospels, like that one from the Gospel of Matthew, and certainly the entire Sermon on the Mount and the Lord’s Prayer with it.”

“Back up for a minute,” Maureen said. “So we know that Jesus writes this in his lifetime and he gives it to Mary Magdalene, who is not only his wife but his successor as a teacher and minister. And we know that there are copies of it, because she refers to one written by Philip. But the original then, the one written in Easa’s hand, comes here.”

“Correct. Magdalene arrives on the shores of France with her children, a handful of loyal followers, and the Book of Love. She teaches from it, first in Marseille, and then later she comes here to the Languedoc. Where we live here in Arques is sacred ground because, legend says, she built a school here as her base of operations, her first mission,
if you will. It is called Arques because of the word
ark
, as in Ark of the Covenant. In other words, the new covenant, the word of Jesus, was brought here and this village was the receptacle of it—the ark that contained it. Sadly, all the ancient monuments to Magdalene are long since demolished, and done so with the intention of wiping out her presence in the Languedoc, as you already know.”

Maureen did know, but she dug into her training as a journalist to play devil’s advocate for a moment. “Which leads me to the crucial question, which every skeptical and incredulous person in the world would ask if you told them this story. And that is simply this: how is it possible that something so important to human history could have been completely erased? This has to be one of the best-kept secrets of the last two thousand years, if not
the
best-kept secret. How is it that no even knows such a thing existed?”

Roland was first to answer, passionate about his subject. “Because our people were murdered to ensure that no one would know that it existed.”

Bérenger added, “Nothing could be more dangerous to the Church than a gospel written in the hand of Jesus Christ, particularly if that gospel proved that everything they stood for was completely opposed to his true teachings. It is the most dangerous document in human history.”

“But they didn’t get it. At least not from Montségur,” said Maureen.

Roland answered, “No, as you are well aware, your ancestor was one of the reasons that the Book of Love was saved. At least for a while. It disappears from our history following Montségur. So much does. All that is left is what has been passed down orally, and time has sadly erased much of that as well.”

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.”