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.