"As I have said, Monseigneur, I have been the recipient of many private donations from souls who want to see my parish prosper."
"You have been trafficking in masses," the bishop declared. "Selling the sacraments. Your crime is simony."
He'd been warned this was the charge to be leveled. "Why do you reproach me? My parish, when I first arrived, was in a lamentable state. It is, after all, the duty of my superiors to ensure for Rennes-le-Chateau a church worthy of the faithful and a decent dwelling for the pastor. But for a quarter century I have worked and rebuilt and beautified the church without asking a centime from the diocese. It seems to me that I deserve your congratulations rather than accusations."
"What do you say was spent on all those improvements?"
He decided to answer. "One hundred ninety-three thousand francs."
The bishop laughed. "Abbe, that would not have bought the furniture, statues, and stained glass. To my calculation you have spent more than seven hundred thousand francs."
"I am not familiar with accounting practices, so I cannot say what the costs were. All I know is that the people of Rennes love their church."
"Officials state that you receive one hundred to one hundred fifty postal orders a day. They come from Belgium, Italy, the Rhineland, Switzerland, and all over France. They range from five to forty francs each. You frequent the bank in Couiza, where they are converted to cash. How do you explain that?"
"All my correspondence is handled by my housekeeper. She both opens and answers any inquiries. That question should be directed to her."
"You are the one who appears at the bank."
He kept to his story. "You should ask her."
"Unfortunately, she is not subject to my authority."
He shrugged.
"Abbe, you are trafficking in masses. It is clear, at least to me, that those envelopes coming to your parish are not notes from well-wishers. But there is something else even more disturbing."
He stood silent.
"I performed a calculation. Unless you are being paid exorbitant sums per mass--and last I knew, the standard rate among offenders was fifty centimes--you would have to say mass twenty-four hours a day for some three hundred years to accumulate the wealth you have spent. No, Abbe, the trafficking in masses is a front, one you concocted, to mask the true source of your good fortune."
This man was far smarter than he appeared to be.
"Any response?"
"No, Monseigneur."
"Then you are hereby relieved of your duties at Rennes and you will report immediately to the parish in Coustouge. In addition, you are suspended, with no right to say the mass or administer the sacraments in church, until further notice."
"And how long is this suspension to last?" he calmly asked.
"Until the Ecclesiastical Court can hear your appeal, which I am sure you will forthwith file."
"Sauniere did appeal," Stephanie said, "all the way to the Vatican, but he died in 1917 before being vindicated. What he did, though, was resign from the Church and never left Rennes. He just started saying mass in the Villa Bethanie. The locals loved him, so they boycotted the new abbe. Remember, all the land around the church, including the villa, belonged to Sauniere's mistress--he was clever there--so the Church couldn't do a thing about it."
Malone wanted to know, "So how did he pay for all those improvements?"
She smiled. "That's a question many have tried to answer, including my husband."
They navigated another of the winding alleyways, bordered by more melancholy houses, the stones the color of dead wood stripped of bark.
"Ernst lived up ahead," she said.
They approached an olden building warmed by pastel roses climbing a wrought-iron pergola. Up three stone stairs stood a recessed door. Malone climbed, peered in through glass in the door, and saw no evidence of neglect. "The place looks good."
"Ernst was obsessive."
He tested the knob. Locked.
"I'd like to get in there," she said from the street.
He glanced around. Twenty feet to their left, the lane ended at the outer wall. Beyond loomed a blue sky dotted with billowy clouds. No one was in sight. He turned back and, with his elbow, popped the glass pane. He then reached inside and released the lock.
Stephanie stepped up behind him.
"After you," he said.
ABBEY DES FONTAINES
2:00 PM
THE SENESCHAL SWUNG THE IRON GRILLE INWARD AND LED THE cortege of mourners through the ancient archway. The entrance into the subterranean Hall of Fathers was located within the abbey walls, at the end of a long passageway where one of the oldest buildings butted rock. Fifteen hundred years ago monks first occupied the caverns beyond, living in the sullen recesses. As more and more penitents arrived, buildings were erected. Abbeys tended to either dramatically grow or dwindle, and this one had erupted with a burst of construction that had lasted centuries, continued by the Knights Templar, who quietly took ownership in the late thirteenth century. The Order's mother house--maison chevetaine, as Rule labeled it--had first been located in Jerusalem, then Acre, then Cyprus, finally ending here after the Purge. Eventually, the complex was surrounded with battlement walls and towers and the abbey grew to become one of Europe's largest, set high among the Pyrenees, secluded by both geography and Rule. Its name came from the nearby river, the falls, and an abundance of groundwater. Abbey des Fontaines: abbey of the fountains.
He made his way down narrow steps chipped from rock. The soles of his canvas sandals were slippery on the moist stone. Where oil torches once provided light, electric sconces now lit the way. Behind him came the thirty-four brothers who'd decided to join him. At the bottom of the stairs, he padded forward until the tunnel opened into a vaulted room. A stone pillar rose from the center, like the trunk of an aging tree.
The brothers slowly gathered around the oak coffin, which had already been brought inside and laid on a stone plinth. Through clouds of incense came melancholy chants.
The seneschal stepped forward and the chanting stopped. "We have come to honor him. Let us pray," he said in French.
They did, then a hymn was sung.
"Our master led us well. You, who are loyal to his memory, take heart. He would have been proud."
A few moments of silence passed.
"What lies ahead?" one of the brothers quietly asked.
Caucusing was not proper in the Hall of Fathers, but with apprehension looming he allowed a bending of Rule.
"Uncertainty," he declared. "Brother de Roquefort is ready to take charge. Those of you who are selected for the conclave will have to work hard to stop him."
"He will be our downfall," another brother muttered.
"I agree," the seneschal said. "He believes that we can somehow avenge seven-hundred-year-old sins. Even if we could, why? We survived."
"His followers have been pressing hard. Those who oppose him will be punished."
The seneschal knew that this was why so few had come to the hall. "Our ancestors faced many enemies. In the Holy Land they stood before the Saracens and died with honor. Here, they endured torture from the Inquisition. Our master, de Molay, was burned at the stake. Our job is to stay faithful." Weak words, he knew, but they had to be said.
"De Roquefort wants to war with our enemies. One of his followers told me that he even intends to take back the shroud."
He winced. Other radical thinkers had proposed that show of defiance before, but every master had quelled the act. "We must stop him in conclave. Luckily, he cannot control the selection process."
"He frightens me," a brother said, and the quiet that followed signaled that the others agreed.
After an hour of prayer the seneschal gave the signal. Four bearers, each dressed in a crimson robe, hoisted the master's coffin.
He turned and approached two columns of red porphyry between which stood the Door of Gold. The name came not from its composition, but from what was once stored behind it.
/> Forty-three masters lay in their own locoli, beneath a rock ceiling, polished smooth and painted a deep blue, upon which gold stars spangled in the light. The bodies had long ago turned to dust. Only bones remained, encased within ossuaries each bearing a master's name and dates of service. To his right were empty niches, one of which would cradle his master's body for the next year. Only then would a brother return and transfer the bones to an ossuary. The burial practice, which the Order had long employed, belonged to the Jews in the Holy Land at the time of Christ.
The bearers deposited the coffin into the assigned cavity. A deep tranquility filled the semi-darkness.
Thoughts of his friend flashed through the seneschal's mind. The master was the youngest son of a wealthy Belgian merchant. He'd gravitated to the Church for no clear reason--simply something he felt compelled to do. He'd been recruited by one of the Order's many journeymen, brothers stationed around the globe, blessed with an eye for recruits. Monastic life had agreed with the master. And though not of high office, in the conclave after his predecessor died the brothers had all cried, "Let him be master." And so he took the oath. I offer myself to the omnipotent God and to the Virgin Mary for the salvation of my soul and so shall I remain in this holy life all my days until my final breath. The seneschal had made the same pledge.
He allowed his thoughts to drift back to the Order's beginning--the battle cries of war, groans of brothers wounded and dying, the anguished moans born of burying those who'd not survived the conflict. That had been the way of the Templars. First in, last to leave. Raymond de Roquefort longed for that time. But why? That futility had been proven when Church and State turned on the Templars at the time of the Purge, showing no regard for two hundred years of loyal service. Brothers were burned at the stake, others tortured and maimed for life, and all for simple greed. To the modern world, the Knights Templar were legends. A long-ago memory. No one cared if they existed, so righting any injustice seemed hopeless.
The dead must stay dead.
He again glanced around at the stone chests, then dismissed the brothers--save one. His assistant. He needed to speak with him alone. The younger man approached.
"Tell me, Geoffrey," the seneschal said. "Were you and the master plotting?"
The man's dark eyes flashed surprise. "What do you mean?"
"Did the master ask you to do something for him recently? Come now, don't lie to me. He's gone, and I'm here." He thought pulling rank would make it easier for him to learn the truth.
"Yes, Seneschal. I mailed two parcels for the master."
"Tell me of the first."
"Thick and heavy, like a book. I posted it while I was in Avignon, more than a month ago."
"The second?"
"Sent Monday, from Perpignan. A letter."
"Who was the letter sent to?"
"Ernst Scoville in Rennes-le-Chateau."
The younger man quickly crossed himself, and the seneschal spied puzzlement and suspicion. "What's wrong?"
"The master said you would ask those questions."
The information grabbed his attention.
"He said that when you did, I should tell you the truth. But he also said for you to be warned. Those who have gone down the path you are about to take have been many, but never has anyone succeeded. He said to wish you well and Godspeed."
His mentor was a brilliant man who clearly knew far more than he'd ever said.
"He also said that you must finish the quest. It's your destiny. Whether you realize that or not."
He'd heard enough. The empty wooden box from the armoire in the master's chamber was now explained. The book he'd sought inside was gone. The master had sent it away. With a gentle wave of his hand he dismissed the aide. Geoffrey bowed, then hustled toward the Door of Gold.
Something occurred to him. "Wait. You never said where the first package, the book, was sent."
Geoffrey stopped and turned but said nothing.
"Why don't you answer?"
"It is not right that we speak of this. Not here. With him so near." The young man's gaze darted to the coffin.
"You said he wanted me to know."
Anxiety swirled in the eyes staring back at him.
"Tell me where the book was sent." Though he already knew, he needed to hear the words.
"To America. A woman named Stephanie Nelle."
RENNES-LE-CHATEAU
2:30 PM
MALONE SURVEYED THE INSIDE OF ERNST SCOVILLE'S MODEST house. The decor was an eclectic collection of British antiques, twelfth-century Spanish art, and unremarkable French paintings. He estimated that a thousand books surrounded him, most yellowed paperbacks and aged hardcovers, each shelf fronting an exterior wall and meticulously arranged by subject and size. Old newspapers were stacked by year, in chronological order. The same was true for periodicals. Everything dealt with Rennes, Sauniere, French history, the Church, Templars, and Jesus Christ.
"Seems Scoville was a Bible connoisseur," he said, pointing to rows of analysis.
"He spent his life studying the New Testament. He was Lars's biblical source."
"Doesn't seem anyone has searched this house."
"It could have been done carefully."
"True. But what were they looking for? What are we looking for?"
"I don't know. All I know is I talked to Scoville, then two weeks later he's dead."
"What would he have known that was worth killing for?"
She shrugged. "Our conversation was pleasant. I honestly thought he was the one who'd sent the journal. He and Lars worked closely. But he knew nothing of the journal being sent to me, though he wanted to read it." She stopped her perusal. "Look at all this stuff. He was obsessed." She shook her head. "Lars and I argued about this very thing for years. I always thought he was wasting his academic abilities. He was a good historian. He should have been making a decent salary at a university, publishing credible research. Instead, he traipsed around the world, chasing shadows."
"He was a bestselling author."
"Only his first book. Money was another of our constant debates."
"You sound like a woman with a lot of regrets."
"Don't you have some? I recall you taking the divorce from Pam hard."
"Nobody likes to fail."
"At least your spouse didn't kill herself."
She had a point.
"You said on the way over here that Lars believed Sauniere discovered a message inside that glass vial found in the column. Who was the message from?"
"In his notebook, Lars wrote that it was probably from one of Sauniere's predecessors, Antoine Bigou, who served as the parish priest for Rennes in the latter part of the eighteenth century, during the time of the French Revolution. I mentioned him in the car. He was the priest to whom Marie d'Hautpoul de Blanchefort told her family secret before dying."
"So Lars thought the family secret was recorded in the vial?"
"It's not that simple. There's more to the story. Marie d'Hautpoul married the last marquis de Blanchefort in 1732. The de Blanchefort line has a French history all the way back to the time of the Templars. The family took part in both the Crusades and the Albigensian wars. One ancestor was even master of the Templars in the middle of the twelfth century, and the family controlled the Rennes township and surrounding land for centuries. When the Templars were arrested in 1307, the de Blancheforts sheltered many fugitives from Philip IV's men. It's said, though no one knows for sure, that members of the de Blanchefort family were always part of the Templars after that."
"You sound like Henrik. Do you actually think the Templars are still out there?"
"I have no idea. But something the man in the cathedral said keeps coming back. He quoted St. Bernard of Clairvaux, the twelfth-century monk who was instrumental in the Templars' rise to power. I acted like I didn't know what he was talking about. But Lars wrote a lot about him."
Malone also recalled the name from the book he'd read in Copenhagen. Bernard de Fontaines was a Ciste
rcian monk who founded a monastery at Clairvaux in the twelfth century. He was a leading thinker and exerted great influence within the Church, becoming a close adviser to Pope Innocent II. His uncle was one of the nine original Templars, and it was Bernard who convinced Innocent II to grant the Templars their unprecedented Rule.
"The man in the cathedral knew Lars," Stephanie said. "Even intimated that he'd spoken to him about the journal, and that Lars challenged him. The man from the Round Tower also worked for him--he wanted me to know that--and that man screamed the Templar battle cry before jumping."
"Could all be a bluff to rattle you."
"I'm starting to doubt it."
He agreed, especially with what he'd noticed on the way over from the cemetery. But for the moment he kept that to himself.
"Lars wrote in his journal about the de Blancheforts' secret, one supposedly dating from 1307, the time of the Templars' arrest. He found plenty of references to this supposed family duty in documents from the period, but never any details. Apparently he spent a lot of time in the local monasteries poring through writings. It's Marie's grave, though, the one drawn in the book Thorvaldsen bought, that seems to be the key. Marie died in 1781, but it wasn't until 1791 that Abbe Bigou erected a headstone and marker over her remains. Remember the time. The French Revolution was brewing, and Catholic churches were being destroyed. Bigou was anti-republic, so he fled into Spain in 1793 and died there two years later, never returning to Rennes-le-Chateau."
"And what did Lars think Bigou hid inside that glass vial?"
"Probably not the actual de Blanchefort secret, but rather a method for learning it. In the notebook, Lars wrote that he firmly believed Marie's grave held the key to the secret."
He was beginning to understand. "Which is why the book was so important."
She nodded. "Sauniere stripped many of the graves in the churchyard, digging up the bones and placing them in a communal ossuary that still stands behind the church. That explains, as Lars wrote, why there are no graves there now dated prior to 1885. The locals raised a loud ruckus about what he was doing, so he was ordered by the town councilors to stop. Marie de Blanchefort's grave was not exhumed, but all of the letters and symbols were chipped away by Sauniere. Unbeknownst to him, there was a sketch of the marker that survived, drawn by a local mayor, Eugene Stublein. Lars learned of that drawing but could never find a copy of the book."