The Templar Legacy (27 page)

Through another chamber they entered what was labeled the Stag Room. Claridon switched on a series of soft incandescent lights. Malone lingered at the doorway long enough to glance back through the previous chamber into the Grand Tinel. A shadow flickered across the wall, enough for him to know they were not alone. He knew who was there. A tall, attractive, athletic woman —of color,as Claridon had said earlier in the car. The woman who’d followed them into the palace.

“—this is where the old and new palaces join,” Claridon was saying. “Old behind us, new through that other portal. This was Clement VI’s study.”

Malone had read in the souvenir book about Clement, a man who enjoyed paintings and poems, pleasing sounds, rare animals, and courtly love. He was quoted as saying, My predecessors didn’t know how to be popes,so he transformed Benedict’s old fortress into a lavish palace. A perfect example of Clement’s material wants now surrounded him as painted images on the windowless walls. Fields, thickets, and streams, all under a blue sky. Men with nets by a green fishpond littered with swimming pike. Brittany spaniels. A young noble and his falcon. A child in a tree. Grasses, birds, bathers. Greens and brown predominated, but an orange dress, a blue fish, and fruit in the trees added dashes of sharp color.

“Clement had these frescoes painted in 1344. They were found beneath the whitewash the soldiers applied when the palace became a barracks in the nineteenth century. This room explains the Avignon popes, especially Clement VI. Some actually called him Clement the Magnificent. He possessed no calling for religious life. Satisfaction of penances, reversal of excommunications, remission of sins, even curtailment of years in purgatory for both the dead and living—all was for sale. You notice anything missing?”

Malone stared again at the frescoes. The hunting scenes were clearly escapism—people doing fun things—with a view that soared and dipped, but nothing particular called out to him.

Then it hit him.

“Where’s God?”

“Good eye, monsieur.” Claridon’s arms swept out. “Not anywhere in this home of Clement VI is there a religious symbol. The omission speaks loudly. This was the bedroom of a king, not a pope, and that was how the Avignon prelates thought of themselves. These were the men who destroyed the Templars. Starting in 1307 with Clement V, who was Philip the Fair’s co-conspirator, and ending with Gregory XI in 1378, these corrupt individuals crushed that Order. Lars always believed, and I agree, that this room proves what those men really valued.”

“Do you think the Templars survived?” Stephanie asked.

“ Oui.They’re out there. I’ve seen them. What exactly they are, I do not know. But they’re out there.”

Malone could not decide if the declaration was fact or just the supposition of a man who saw conspiracies where none existed. All he knew was that a woman was stalking them who was expert enough to plant a slug above his head into a tree trunk, from fifty yards, at night, in a forty-mile-per-hour wind. She might even have been the one who saved his hide in Copenhagen. And she was real.

“Let’s get on with it,” Malone said.

Claridon switched off the light. “Follow me.”

They walked across the old palace to the north wing and the convention center. A placard noted that the facility was recently created by the city as a way to raise revenue for further restoration. The former Conclave Hall, Treasurer’s Chamber, and Great Cellar had been equipped with bleacher seats, a stage, and audiovisual equipment. Down more passageways they passed stone effigies of more Avignon popes.

Claridon eventually stopped at a stout wooden door and tested the latch, which opened. “Good. They still do not lock it at night.”

“Why not?” Malone asked.

“There’s nothing of any value here besides information, and few thieves are interested in that.”

They stepped into a pitch-dark space.

“This was once the chapel of Benedict XII, the pope who conceived and built most of the old palace. In the late nineteenth century, this and the room above were converted into the district’s archives. The palace keeps its records here, too.”

The light spilling in from the hall revealed a towering room filled with shelving, row after row. More lined the outer walls, one section stacked on top of the other, a railed walkway encircling. Behind the shelves rose arched windows, the black panes peppered by a steady rain.

“Four kilometers of shelving,” Claridon said. “A gracious plenty of information.”

“But you know where to look?” Malone asked.

“I hope so.”

Claridon plunged ahead down the center aisle. Malone and Stephanie waited until a lamp came on fifty feet inside.

“Over here,” Claridon called out.

Malone closed the hall door and wondered how the woman was going to gain her entrance unnoticed. He led the way toward the light and they found Claridon standing next to a reading table.

“Lucky for history,” Claridon said, “all the palace’s artifacts were inventoried early in the eighteenth century. Then, in the late nineteenth century, photographs and drawings were made of what survived the Revolution. Lars and I both became familiar with how the information was organized.”

“And you didn’t come look after Mark died because you thought the Knights Templar would kill you?” Malone asked.

“I realize, monsieur, you don’t believe much of this. But I assure you I did the right thing. These records have rested here for centuries, so I thought they could rest quietly awhile longer. Staying alive seemed more important.”

“So why are you here now?” Stephanie asked.

“A long time has passed.” Claridon stepped from the table. “Around us are the palace inventories. It will take me a few minutes to look. Why don’t you sit and let me see if I can find what we want.” He produced a flashlight from his pocket. “From the asylum. I thought we may need it.”

Malone slid out a chair, as did Stephanie. Claridon disappeared into the darkness. They sat and he could hear rummaging, the flashlight beam dancing across the vault overhead.

“This is what my husband did,” she said in a whisper. “Hiding out in a forgotten palace, looking for nonsense.”

He caught the edge in her voice.

“While our marriage slipped away. While I worked twenty hours a day. This was what he did.”

A peal of thunder sent tremors through both him and the room.

“It was important to him,” Malone said, keeping his voice low, too. “And there might even be something to it.”

“Like what, Cotton. Treasure? If Saunière discovered those jewels in the crypt, okay. Luck like that visits people every once in a while. But there’s nothing more. Bigou, Saunière, Lars, Mark, Claridon. They’re all dreamers.”

“Dreamers have many times changed the world.”

“This is a wild goose chase for a goose that doesn’t exist.”

Claridon returned from the darkness and dropped a musty folder on the table. Water stains smeared its outside. Inside was a three-inch stack of black-and-white photographs and pencil drawings. “Within a few feet of where Mark said. Thank heaven the old men who run this place change little about it over time.”

“How did Mark find it?’ Stephanie asked.

“He would hunt for clues on the weekends. He wasn’t as dedicated as his father, but he came to the house in Rennes often and he and I dabbled in the search. At the university in Toulouse he came across some information on the Avignon archives. He linked the clues together and here we have the answer.”

Malone spread the contents out across the table. “What are we looking for?”

“I’ve never seen the painting. We can only hope it’s identified.”

They started sifting through the images.

“There,” Claridon said, excitement in his voice.

Malone focused on one of the lithographs, a black-and-white drawing time-tinged, edges frayed. A handwritten notation across the top readDON MIGUEL DE MAÑARA READING THE RULES OF THE CARIDAD.

The image was of an older man, with the dusting of a beard and a thin mustache, seated at a table, wearing a religious habit. An elaborate emblem was stitched to one sleeve from elbow to shoulder. His left hand touched a book propped upright and his right hand was extended, palm-up, motioning across an elaborately clothed desk to a little man in a monk’s robe perched on a low stool with fingers to his lips, signaling quiet. An open book lay in the little man’s lap. The floor, which extended from one side to the other, was a checkerboard arrangement, like a chessboard, and writing appeared on the stool where the little man sat.

ACABOCE Aº

DE1687

“Most curious,” Claridon muttered. “Look here.”

Malone followed Claridon’s finger and studied the top left portion of the picture where, in the shadows behind the little man, a table and shelf stood. On top lay a human skull.

“What does all this mean?” Malone asked Claridon.

“ Caridadtranslates to ‘charity,’ which can also be love. The black habit the man at the table wears is from the Order of the Knights of Calatrava, a Spanish religious society devoted to Jesus Christ. I can tell from the design on the sleeve. Acaboce is ‘completion.’ The Aº could be a reference to alpha and omega, the first and last letters in the Greek alphabet—the beginning and end. The skull? I have no idea.”

Malone recalled what Bigou supposedly wrote in the Rennes parish register just before he fled France for Spain. Read the Rules of the Caridad. “What rules are we to read?”

Claridon studied the drawing in the weak light. “Notice something about the little man on the stool. See his shoes. His feet are planted on black squares in the flooring, diagonal to one another.”

“The floor resembles a chessboard,” Stephanie said.

“And the bishop moves diagonally, as the feet indicate.”

“So the little man is a bishop?” Stephanie asked.

“No,” Malone said, understanding. “In French chess, the bishop is the Fool.”

“You are a student of the game?” Claridon asked.

“I’ve played some.”

Claridon rested his finger atop the little man on the stool. “Here is the Wise Fool who apparently has a secret that deals with alpha and omega.”

Malone understood. “Christ has been called that.”

“ Oui.And when you add acaboce you have ‘completion of alpha and omega.’ Completion of Christ.”

“But what does that mean?” Stephanie asked.

“Madame, might I see Stüblein’s book?”

She found the volume and handed it to Claridon. “Let’s look at the gravestone again. This and the painting are related. Remember, it was the abbè Bigou who left both clues.” He laid the book flat on the table.

“You have to know the history to understand this gravestone. The d’Hautpoul family dates back to twelfth-century France. Marie married François d’Hautpoul, the last lord, in 1732. One of the d’Hautpoul ancestors penned a will in 1644, which he duly registered and placed with a notary in Espéraza. When that ancestor died, though, that will was not to be found. Then, more than a hundred years after his death, the lost will suddenly reappeared. When François d’Hautpoul went to get it, he was told by the notary that it would not be wise for me to part with a document of such great importance.François died in 1753, and in 1780 the will was finally given to his widow, Marie. Why? No one knows. Perhaps because she was, by then, the only d’Hautpoul left. But she died a year later and it’s said she passed the will, and whatever information it contained, to the abbé Bigou as part of the great family secret.”

“And that was what Saunière found in the crypt? Along with the gold coins and the jewels?”

Claridon nodded. “But the crypt was concealed. So Lars always believed the false grave of Marie in the cemetery held the actual clue. Bigou must have felt that the secret he knew was too great not to pass on. He was fleeing the country, never to return, so he left a puzzle that pointed the way. In the car, when you first showed me this gravestone drawing, many things occurred to me.” He reached for a blank pad and pen that lay on the table. “Now I know this carving is full of information.”

Malone studied the letters and symbols on the gravestones.

“The stone on the right lay flat on Marie’s grave and does not contain the sort of inscription normally found on graves. Its left side is written in Latin.” Claridon wroteET IN PAX on the pad. “This translates to ‘and in peace,’ but it has problems. Pax is the nominative case of peace and is grammatically incorrect after the preposition in. The right-hand column is written in Greek and is gibberish. But I’ve been thinking about that, and the solution finally came to me. The inscription is actually all Latin, written in the Greek alphabet. When you translate into Roman, the E, T, I, N, and A are fine. But the P is an R, the X becomes a K, and—”

Claridon scribbled on the pad, then wrote his completed translation across the bottom.

ET IN ARCADIA EGO

“And in Arcadia I,” Malone said, translating the Latin. “That makes no sense.”

“Precisely,” Claridon noted. “Which would lead one to conclude that the words are concealing something else.”

Malone understood. “An anagram?”

“Quite common in Bigou’s time. After all, it’s doubtful Bigou would have left a message that easy to decipher.”

“What about the words in the center?”

Claridon jotted them onto the pad.

REDDIS RÉGIS CÉLLIS ARCIS

“ Reddismeans ‘to give back, to restore something previously taken.’ But it’s also Latin for ‘Rennes.’ Regis derives from rex, which is ‘king.’ Cella refers to a storeroom. Arcis stems from arx —a stronghold, fortress, citadel. A lot can be made of each, but together they make no sense. Then there’s the arrow that connects p-s at the top with præ-cum. I have no idea what the p-s means. The præ-cum translates as ‘pray to come.’ ”

“What is that symbol at the bottom?” Stephanie asked. “Looks like an octopus.”

Claridon shook his head. “A spider, madame. But its significance escapes me.”

“What about the other stone?” Malone asked.

“The left one stood upright over the grave and was the most visible. Remember, Bigou served Marie d’Hautpoul for many years. He was extraordinarily loyal to her and took two years to produce this headstone, yet almost every line in it contains an error. Masons of that day were prone to mistakes, but this many? No way the abbé would have allowed them to remain.”