The Lake of Learning Read online

  Most definitely.

  “I watched you as you studied the photos. That book spoke to you. It means something to you.”

  Simone nodded. “As a scholar who has devoted the better part of her life to studying ancient religions, Catharism being one of those, what you’ve found could be historic.”

  She waited for more.

  “Did he tell you The Story of Arnaut?”

  “He did. At the top of Montségur.”

  “I see he’s not changed. Always a flare for the dramatic. But it did probably make the story more vivid.”

  “Enough that I engaged in further research, which led me to you.”

  “The legend is that Arnaut was sent away from Montségur, right before the citadel surrendered, on a special mission. Holed up there were the last of the Cathars’ Perfecti. The most important minds they had. They’d all climbed the pog and taken refuge inside the castle. Their last act was to safeguard their most sacred object.”

  “Which can’t be monetary.”

  “Not in the least. It was called La Vertat. The Truth. A manuscript that memorialized all that it meant to be Cathar. Their bible, if you will. The only written account of the religion’s beliefs. Once they realized they were not going to leave Montségur alive, they either created or modified a Book of Hours. One with a rose on its cover and many symbols inside. All written in Occitan. They called it Le Camin de Lutz. The Path to Light.” Simone pointed at the phone. “That book.”

  “Beláncourt refused to tell me anything about the treasure, only that its finding was intensely personal to him. This Path to Light, is that significant?”

  “Those last Perfecti knew the end was near. The crusaders had won. They were about to be extinguished. They wanted their religion to live on. To not die or be forgotten. Prior to ascending the mount, they hid away a special writing. La Vertat. Where there are many versions of the Christian Bible, printed over the centuries and translated by a multitude of people, for the Cathars there is but one, with no copies. The Truth. The Book of Hours supposedly leads the way to find that truth.”

  Simone Forte seemed smart, intelligent, straightforward and genuinely intrigued. She also knew Roland Beláncourt better than anyone alive. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Absolutely.

  “Would you like to examine the book?” she asked her.

  The woman’s face lit up. “It would be marvelous to have a look.”

  She needed answers and this source seemed the fastest way to obtain them.

  “I’ve always thought the Camin de Lutz a myth,” Simone said. “A story. A fable. There was no Path to Light. Which meant that there was no La Vertat. But what you found seems to suggest otherwise. That Cathar bible may actually be out there, waiting to be found.”

  “Is there any more to the legend?”

  “Only bits and pieces. It is said the Cathars hid The Truth well. They did not want the crusaders to ever find it. No one has any idea where that could be. I know a few antiquity scholars who searched for a time but gave up. There is but one other clue to the location that survived the centuries.”

  She waited.

  “Le menarà al lac del saber.”

  She translated the Occitan.

  The rose will lead to the Lake of Learning.

  Chapter 15

  The Perfecti stood on the ramparts of Carcassonne and watched Cassiopeia Vitt drive from the car park. She’d followed her from the inquisition museum, imagining being with Vitt in that car, insisting that she be allowed to have the illuminated manuscript. Holding it, studying it, then following its lead—the Path to Light—deciphering what had been encrypted into the illustrations and finding The Truth. Being here, in Carcassonne, always made her think of the past. Hard not to, considering the ambiance. Why had her religion threatened so many? Why had it been necessary to eradicate so peaceful a people?

  All sacred beliefs contrasted Light and Dark. Catholics. Protestants. Muslims. Hindus. Buddhists. Even pagans. Cathars were no different, striving for inner liberation, focusing on spirituality. Evil might triumph temporarily, but sanctity always prevailed.

  The Albigensian Crusade no exception.

  Evil won for a moment, but at a price.

  The papacy was permanently damaged by the savagery, its status weakened, while the power of kings grew. The fanatical suppression of fellow Christians had consequences since, if the Cathars could be silenced, why not everyone else? Another crusade called to attack the Franks? Or the Spanish? Or the English? Anyone who disagreed with Rome? That fear had not gone unnoticed and the secular powers set about on a course to dominate Rome and control its pope.

  And they did.

  For a long time.

  She continued to watch until Vitt’s car disappeared around a bend in the road. Then she descended the ramparts and walked to the count’s castle, passing an endless line of shops and cafés, busy with visitors. Carcassonne’s legacy stretched back to the dawn of history. Always sleepy and slow. Impregnable to all enemies, save two.

  Treason and famine.

  Both of which had extracted a toll.

  She found the fortified castle, which contributed six towers to the outer walls, crossed the bridge-moat, paid the admission fee, then climbed a spiral staircase that wound a path up into one of the towers, a place few tourists ventured. At the top the arches opened out toward the lower city, with its paved streets laid out at right angles, flat as a checkerboard, no different than a thousand other communities around France. No noise intruded from below, leaving her alone with her thoughts. She soaked in the encircling panorama of the valley beyond and the muddy River Aude. Beauty loomed in every direction beneath a cloud-flecked sky.

  The Cathar message would resonate today.

  She was convinced of that.

  The laurel will flourish again in 700 years. That was what the great Guilhèm Belibaste had said in 1321, right before they burned him. Had that time come? Perhaps. Miraculously, the Book of Hours had appeared from the ground. Fate? A sign? Coincidence?

  Hard to say.

  Carcassonne had once been a formidable Cathar stronghold. Eventually, in 1209, the crusaders laid siege, forcing people to crowd into the city, seeking safety. Too many. A hot summer taxed the water supply and forced some difficult decisions. No one, Cathar or crusader, wanted to destroy the town. And there was no way the defenders could hold out. So a deal was offered. If the inhabitants surrendered, all lives would be spared, provided the people walked out wearing nothing but their shirts and breeches, carrying nothing, as one had said, but their sins.

  And that was what happened.

  Such a disgrace.

  Two hundred kilometers away, in Marmande, a different result occurred. By then ten years had elapsed since the fall of Carcassonne and the crusaders had perfected their terror. No deals were offered. Five thousand died after the city was taken. Men, women, children. Lords, ladies, peasants. All stripped naked, their flesh, blood, brains, trunks, limbs, and faces hacked to pieces. Lungs, livers, and guts were tossed aside on the open ground, as if they had rained down from the sky, left for the animals. Marshland and dry earth ran red with blood. Not a soul was left alive, the town razed and set afire.

  And not atypical.

  She’d spent half of her life devoted to learning how to be a Cathar, communing with others of a like belief. Of course, the great paradox was that the only historical assistance came from Inquisition records, or other enemies of the religion. Not a single original Cathar text had survived. Not one. History truly was written by the victor. But there may be a chance to rewrite those lies. The Book of Hours may now be in reach.

  Which could lead to The Truth.

  She heard voices below, beyond the stairway.

  Tourists. Exploring the castle.

  She needed to leave and return to Toulouse. Only a hundred kilometers to the west. The drive would give her time to think. Time to determine what might have to be done. Unlike her ancestors, she did not intend to willfully submit to
oppression. Seven hundred years had taught that the meek only get killed.

  And that would not be her fate.

  She would not allow this opportunity to pass.

  Chapter 16

  Roland Beláncourt entered the Cathédrale Saint-Étienne. Nobody knew when the great church had first been built. Best guess was sometime during the time of Charlemagne. The present misshapen building appeared as if it had been taken apart by a child, then reassembled in the dark. A merger of two incomplete styles, one massive and powerful, the other sleek and luminous.

  Dark and Light.

  The heretic, the Bishop of Toulouse, had incited the locals against Rome from its pulpit. The counts of Toulouse had worshipped here, which explained why, after the crusades ended the local lineage had been extinguished and a stamp of royalty placed throughout the church. That’s when the fabulous Baroque altarpiece, the intricate grills, and an ensemble of magnificent stained-glass windows appeared to evidence both French and papist wealth and power.

  He paraded down the center aisle, the pews filled with people who’d come for the Sunday evening mass. Most of the heads were bent in deliberation, only a collective silence binding them. He caught the stares, as some recognized him. Toulouse was the birthplace of European rockets, the Concorde, and the Airbus. The French space agency was headquartered nearby, along with the national weather service. There were countless research centers, high-tech firms, and elite training schools. He was right at the center of everything, his company a giant, owned and operated by a native son. Which these people clearly knew. But they also needed to know he was a man of God. His allegiance to the Church and Rome. Religion mattered to him, as it should to everyone. His parents and grandparents had worshipped right here. As their grandparents before them. He’d supported this cathedral with both time and money, the local bishop a personal friend.

  He took his seat and the mass began.

  He knelt, along with the rest of the congregation.

  The choir began its angelic rendition of Gloria in Excelsis.

  He closed his eyes and prayed.

  The priest ended the mass with a dismissal to go in peace.

  Outside, the sun had receded, the stained glass windows darkening to the day. He crossed himself and rose, leaving the pew and walking toward the rear doors. He felt refreshed, like always after mass. Which was why he regularly attended. Entering the church he always kept his head bowed. Not so when leaving. And that’s when he saw her. Sitting in the last pew.

  Simone.

  They’d had no contact in years. Odd, considering they lived in the same town. But with over a half million residents it was easy to avoid one another. She still looked lovely, a radiant face and bright eyes that concealed an unmatched intellect. An amazing woman whom he once loved. More than he ever realized. But she’d betrayed that devotion. In an unforgivable way.

  He stopped and faced her.

  “I need to talk to you,” she said, her voice low.

  Not hello, how are you, go to hell. Nothing. Just she had to talk to him. He could see little had changed.

  “Certainly not here,” he said.

  She shrugged. “Why not? This is your sacred church. What better place?”

  He caught her sarcasm. No sense arguing. The nave was rapidly emptying and he did not want a spectacle. He stepped into the pew and sat beside her but kept his face toward the altar. “What is it, Simone?”

  “Leave Cassiopeia Vitt’s manuscript alone.”

  He shook his head. “This is neither the time, nor the place, to have this conversation.”

  “She came to see me.”

  New information, but not surprising given Simone’s reputation with Cathar history. So he made clear, “I’ll have that manuscript.”

  “You hate me that much?”

  “I loathe the sight of you. Just sitting here turns my stomach.”

  Memories washed over him in sickening waves. Horrible thoughts of horrible things. Tumultuous emotions churned inside. His eyes felt the unaccustomed dampness of a renewed grief. His body ached like an unhealed wound. But he kept calm. “I knew, at some point, you would show yourself. I didn’t think it would take Vitt long to find the world’s most renowned expert on heresy.” He added a splash of disgust to his tone. “And even faster for her to connect you and me. You will not see that manuscript.”

  “I already have.”

  He finally glared her way. “Photos, I’m sure. Vitt’s not stupid enough to remove it from her estate. Someone tried to steal it. Was that you?”

  She said nothing.

  “You need to see the real thing. We both know that,” he told her.

  The nave was now empty. Just his past remained.

  He decided to be cavalier and not allow this ghost to haunt him any further. “This is it, Simone. Le Camin de Lutz has been found. The Path to Light. It’s real.” He kept his eyes locked on hers and saw she knew that too. “You will not have it. I have the means to stop you. And I will.”

  “Your hate will devour you.”

  “It already has.”

  He stood and walked away.

  The Perfecti entered one of the cathedral’s side chapels. Roland Beláncourt had left nearly a half hour ago. She’d lingered in the dim quiet, though she preferred a cathedral of trees and mountains over stone, wood, tapestries, and glass. Cathars had never required such trappings to affirm their faith.

  Quite the contrary, in fact.

  A confusion of expression surrounded her.

  The church’s great door off center, arches that appeared without relation to one another, a tower in no particular style, an erratic interruption of windows. But the uniqueness cast a beauty, similar to what character gave to the human countenance. Rigid regularity of features, mathematical balance, and a lineless surface made only for doll-like prettiness. A façade. A faux. Nothing special or unique. But when the features varied, the angles deviated from plumb, the surfaces became etched with significant lines, that was when there was a story to tell.

  This church had a story.

  Everything in its entirety, but nothing in particular.

  Like herself.

  High above hung the rose window.

  A 12th century innovation, usually placed at the west end of a nave, near the transept ends. It had been the introduction of tracery in the 13th century that converted the mundane into spectacular. Its radiating elements consisted of an intricate network of wavy, double-curved bars, creating geometric forms and flame-like shapes. Rose windows were common throughout France.

  Reims, Amiens, Notre Dame.

  And here, in Toulouse.

  Along with one on the cover of the Book of Hours.

  She breathed in the incense-laced air. The scent brought back childhood memories when she was brought here by her parents to worship. She came to hate the stench of frankincense. The perfume of holiness and hell. Of obedience and concession. Of pomp and circumstance. But now was not the time to remember.

  The time had come to act.

  She’d come to gauge her enemy. To look him in the eye. But nothing had changed. Roland still despised her. He knew her as Simone Forte, a woman he’d once married. But thanks to a legal annulment their union never existed. Once they’d both been devout Catholics. He maintained his faith, but she became a Cathar, and not just in name only. How could the sanctity of Jesus Christ and all His teachings be required to be obeyed on the one hand then, on the other, the Church pillaged, murdered, raped, stole, and destroyed in His name? Being a learned woman she’d read many religious works from around the globe. Of them all dualism seemed the most logical. The Cathars the most gentle. They’d understood that in order to be good, a person had to first be kind, truthful, and humble. No exceptions. No lapses. The priest who’d just said mass had worn silk robes with glittering gold thread. The bishop of this cathedral sported an episcopal ring with an amethyst the size of a walnut. And what of his gold miter studded with amethyst diamonds? What of this grand buildin
g itself, just one of thousands of Catholic temples that existed around the world as monuments to themselves?

  None of that was required by the God of Good.

  She felt dirty and disgusted just standing here.

  Nothing she could see offered a path to heaven.

  She, like every Cathar before her, wanted only to practice their faith in peace. But Roland was not going to allow that. He had a mission. One fueled by hate. But it was good to know that he too had sensed that this find might be the right one. Long ago they’d talked of the Book of Hours, the Path to Light and its connection to The Truth. He knew what this discovery would mean to her. Which explained why he’d moved immediately to intervene, denying that which was precious to her to somehow lessen the pain of her denial to him.

  Like her ancestors, a papist now stood in her way.

  One intent on crushing her.

  She turned to leave and noticed something on the floor.

  A rosary.

  Curled onto itself. Probably dropped by one of the worshipers. Beads on a string to count the prayers. So many. Repeated over and over.

  And for what?

  What had catechism taught?

  With the Hail Mary we invite the Virgin to pray for us. She joins Her prayer to ours. Therefore it becomes ever more useful, because what Mary asks She always receives. Jesus can never say no to whatever His Mother asks. With your prayer, made together with Your heavenly Mother, you can obtain the great gift of bringing about a change of hearts. Each day, through prayer, you can drive away from yourselves and from your homeland many dangers and many evils.

  All lies.

  And unnecessary.

  Another papist invention to keep the faithful close.

  One the Cathars had never required.

  She walked away, resolute, and made a point to plant the sole of her shoe directly atop the rosary, cracking the beads.

  She was the Perfecti.

  And, unlike her ancestors, who’d willingly walked into the flames to flee the God of Evil, she would confront the Darkness head on.