Authors: Kathleen McGowan
That key was Maureen Paschal.
It was apparent to everyone in the Confraternity of the Holy Apparition that Maureen Paschal was a prophetess with extraordinary ability and clarity. They had all studied how she had found the Arques Gospel of Mary Magdalene by following her visions, a feat no one else could accomplish. Even within their confraternity, where they had cultivated the greatest visionaries of all time for almost eight centuries, no one had been able to track that treasure successfully. Once she made her discovery in France, it became infinitely clear that Maureen Paschal had a special destiny. Then they knew that she was the “Expected One” who would also be able to unlock the secrets within the Book of Love. This infuriated Felicity de Pazzi.
Felicity had been brought into the presence of the Book of Love on several occasions, and each time the confraternity members prayed fervently that she would be able to unlock the Book and reveal its contents to them. But the book remained silent, despite Felicity’s stigmata,
which bled so profusely when in the presence of the Book that she had to be hospitalized after the last session.
Felicity de Pazzi had suffered and bled for
all
her visions. This is how she knew they were authentic. God required pain from his holy ones to test their faith. Anyone who claimed visions but did not suffer for them was a false prophet who had not been tested. Felicity lived to share this understanding with others. Her mission was to tell the truth of the terrible prophecies that were given her about the End Times and the sinners who would be boiled alive in their own blood if they did not repent. The Holy Mother was very specific about the nature of the death that would come to the unbelievers and to those who were not willing to make profound sacrifices to show their love of God.
And Felicity did indeed sacrifice. She wore a
cilicium,
the medieval-style hair shirt that scratched and tore the flesh, beneath her loose-fitting clothes. She was remarkably thin and fine-boned, and she tied the instrument of torture tightly against her skin so that it did not show beneath her blouses. Felicity wore long sleeves at all times, so the scars from her cuttings were not visible. She had been taking a blade to her own flesh since she was in her early teens, carving images of crosses, thorns, and nails into her arms and legs until they bled and scabbed. Felicity knew that pain, suffering, and ultimately martyrdom were the greatest gifts one could give to God, and she could therefore not abide the knowledge of Maureen Paschal’s continued grace as a visionary. That woman was an aberration, a heretic and blasphemer who did not deserve the gifts that God had bestowed upon her. She abused them for her own personal gain, exploiting her faith for money and profit. She was worse than the Whore of Babylon, more wicked than Jezebel; she was the serpent Lilith who would destroy Eden.
Maureen Paschal had to be stopped. And if she could be—if the unworthy life of such a demoness could be successfully terminated—then perhaps Felicity would finally be able to fulfill her own destiny. It was clear to her that the Paschal whore had stolen her rightful place. If God would only allow one prophetess at a time to unlock the Book of Love, then eliminating this unworthy one was a necessity. As long as Maureen
Paschal lived, the role was taken. But if she died, Felicity would then be able to step into that place, which was rightfully hers.
Felicity continued to rant. “She was the only one who could unlock the Book of Love, and you brought her there to do it. To prove once and for all that it was not what the heretics claimed it to be. And then . . . put an end to her.”
The old man found some strength in the truth as he pulled himself up in his chair. “But it
is
what the heretics claim it to be, my dear. It is everything we feared it could be, and more. And that, unfortunately, is our predicament.”
“All the more reason to end her.”
“Felicity, God has chosen her. Whether we like it or not, whether we understand his reasons, it does not matter. If God has chosen her, we must accept that.”
“You have lost all your wits along with your faith, Uncle!” Felicity looked as if she would strike him, and the old man recoiled as she leaned across the desk to make her point. “Don’t you see? It is a test for me. God is waiting for me to show that I am worthy of this place by eliminating the imposter, the usurper. This is a great treasure, to be his prophetess, to speak his truth as it is told to me by the Holy Virgin. Such truths cannot come through the corrupted channels of a fornicator. It is through my chastity and my suffering that the truth will be revealed, and we will save the sinners who would repent. And the unrepentant will die and be condemned to hell, as they must.”
Father Girolamo looked at his niece helplessly. He had attempted to explain the events in Chartres to her, but she did not care to listen. The leaders of the confraternity had known that Maureen would never cooperate with what was considered a radical fringe element within the Church—or more accurately, just outside the Church. This was why she had been lured into the crypt of Chartres Cathedral on false pretenses. The plan was to offer her a deal, to persuade her through financial and other means to come to their side and work for the confraternity. They wanted Maureen to recant, to turn her back on her research and deny her discovery of the importance of Mary Magdalene.
Maureen had published her findings to a fascinated audience of millions, claiming as she did that Magdalene was not only the wife of Jesus but also his chosen successor and arguably the founder of Christianity following the crucifixion. Truly, Mary Magdalene was the apostle of the apostles, but to allow her such power—with evidence to support the claim—would diminish the authority of the Church. Maureen’s work challenged many long and deeply held traditions in Catholicism, including the refusal to allow women to become priests. But perhaps most controversial of all was Maureen’s assertion that sacred sexuality was not only practiced by Jesus and his lawfully wedded wife but that this tradition, known as
hieros-gamos,
was a cornerstone of early Christianity. For an institution that had required vows of celibacy from its clergy for a thousand years, this idea of sex as sacred and holy was completely offensive, if not blasphemous.
The confraternity was not going to allow an American upstart—and a female at that—to challenge their traditions without a fight. Deciding that the most effective course would be to get the heretic herself to recant, they set into motion their plan to entrap Maureen and to blackmail her into changing her story. They knew it was a long shot and were prepared to eliminate her if she did not comply with the terms.
But that was before Maureen Paschal was brought into the presence of the Book of Love, in the holy ground of the Chartres crypt on the summer solstice. That was before the book opened and revealed itself, surrounding Father Girolamo in the most exquisite blue light, infusing him with the perfect expression of love, a physical experience of what God felt like on earth. That was before Girolamo de Pazzi came to realize that the Book of Love was the true message of his Lord, and that to destroy the one woman who understood what it was and what it said would be a sin too great for him to commit.
“But why did you allow her to leave to tell this tale?” She gestured contemptuously at the book that lay between them. “
That,
Uncle, was not the plan. There is not a man—or woman—in the five hundred years of our people who has been as weak as you were in that moment. After all this time . . .
ahhh!
” She screamed her frustration, unable to
put the words together through her rage. “It is inconceivable! And now look what she has done! Her blasphemy infects the world, and you along with it.”
It was a cruel blow. Father Girolamo de Pazzi had to be carried
out of the Chartres crypt on a stretcher after his encounter with Maureen Paschal and the Book of Love. That same night, he suffered a stroke from which he had been recovering for two years. His speech had returned, but he was feeble and partially paralyzed as a result of the ailment. He had no doubt that the stroke was God’s punishment, his way of warning Girolamo that there must be no further attacks on Maureen’s life. He had tried to explain this to Felicity and the other more rabid members of the confraternity, but his reasoning fell on the deaf ears of fanatics who appeared to be growing more rabid rather than less.
There had been two other members of the confraternity with him that night in the crypt, henchmen of the darkest order who had been chosen for their extremism. Both men were committed fanatics, like Felicity, and had been fully prepared to eliminate Maureen if necessary to protect the secrets of the Church—once they were certain of what those secrets were. But they, too, were changed by the events of that evening. The crueler of them had died in his sleep within a week of
the events. His heart merely stopped beating in his chest, despite his youth and physical health. The other man lived still, but he had simply ceased to function and had not uttered a word in two years. He was currently residing in an institution for the mentally handicapped in Switzerland.
No, those who were not present would never comprehend what happened that evening.
“You cannot understand, Felicity. But I beg you to leave this alone. It is . . . far bigger than you can imagine. And I fear for you, fear that you will be the one hurt if you attempt to harm the Paschal woman in any way. God does not wish her to be harmed.”
Felicity spat at her uncle, dark eyes glazing over as she channeled the holy Felicita’s ire. There were moments when the saint appeared to take
possession of her namesake and speak through her with an unearthly fervor, as she did now.
“How dare you presume to tell me what God wants?” the ancient Felicita growled through her vessel at the cowering old man before her. “I hear him clearly. And I pray that God forgives you for your weakness and for your evil intent. Only a devil would try to stop me from carrying out an ultimate example of sacrifice for the extreme glory of our Lord!”
Father Girolamo de Pazzi sat back in his chair, exhausted and deflated by the encounter. His niece appeared to have taken possession of her own body once more, though her eyes were still feverish. Felicity grabbed the offending book from his desk and turned to storm out as he called out weakly after her.
“What will you do now, Felicity?”
She turned to face him one final time, a small, satisfied smile on her lips.
“I have an appearance tonight, Uncle. Don’t tell me you are so feeble you have forgotten. And I have no doubt that Our Lady will have much to say about this fornicator who would commit blasphemy in the name of her chaste and holy son.” Felicita spat on the book she held in her hand. “And so I shall ensure that the confraternity knows full well who the enemy is.”
He nodded sadly, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop what was about to happen.
“And then? Where will you go then?”
“Florence.”
“Why Florence?”
“Savonarola,” she said first, knowing he would understand that. Her uncle had been named after their infamous ancestor, after all. His full given name was Girolamo Savonarola de Pazzi. It was a name that, until his grand failure of two years ago, he had lived up to brilliantly.
“And because Destino is there.” She hissed his name with a venom that she normally saved for her red-haired American nemesis. Destino had been the enemy of the confraternity for centuries, and she had a
special desire to stop him as well. However, putting an end to the Paschal creature once and for all would be the greatest blow to Destino, so that remained her primary focus. Eliminating Maureen would destroy everything Destino had ever hoped to build.
And as Felicity turned and stomped out without a glance back, Father Girolamo watched her leave with more trepidation than he had ever felt in his long and troubled life.
Someone would soon die. He had no doubt of that. He just wasn’t entirely sure who it would be—or at this stage, who he wished it to be.
The villa of Careggi, outskirts of Florence
July 4, 1442
C
OSIMO DE’ MEDICI
paced in anticipation of the arrival of his esteemed guest. The coming of René d’ Anjou to Florence was an affair of state, and the members of that republic’s council, the Signoria, had been preparing for months. There were political preparations to be sure: René was extremely popular in France, where he held a number of exalted titles, each bearing witness to the tremendous power he could wield when necessary. He was the duke of Provence and the titular king of both Naples and Jerusalem—all territories that would be very valuable to have in alliance should the Florentine republic require foreign aid in times of crisis. The military power of Naples, specifically, was of utmost importance in Italian alliances.
Yet for all his benevolent reputation, and that he was known as “Good King René,” those were honors bestowed by his French countrymen. Florentines were, by nature, skeptical of all outsiders, but they were particularly wary of the acquisitive hands of French nobility. The fact that Naples was in French hands was grating enough on many Italians, and yet Florentines also realized that it could have been worse: the more politically aggressive and spiritually restrictive Aragon family from Spain was also vying for control of Naples. At least King René was
a charming young man of education, taste, and progressive humanist ideals, all qualities that the cultured people of Florence held in high regard. Still, handling the multititled nobleman would require expert diplomacy and negotiating tactics.
The political potentials and detriments of an alliance with Good King René were argued in the Signoria at the same time that the coffers were opened to create a lavish spectacle of welcome worthy of the Republic of Florence. Cosimo de’ Medici observed all of it but did little to participate in the public and political machinations. He was the most powerful and influential man in the Republic of Florence, but his interest in René d’Anjou was entirely personal—and gravely secret. Regardless of the outcome of the grand political posturing that would occur over the next weeks, Cosimo knew that René would never fail him if he ever truly needed him. Their meeting today in the privacy of the Medici villa of Careggi, beyond the watchful eyes that lurked within the city walls, would attest to that. While King René’s official entrance and reception into Florence would occur ten days later, he had entered the region today under heavy disguise on a secret mission. It was a visit that was completely unknown to the citizens of Florence, a meeting that would have no witnesses save the chosen few and the ancient stones that formed the walls of Cosimo’s elegant retreat.