She fingered the tattered cloth. “It’s silk.”
“And it survived,” Viktor said, “thanks to the seal.”
She lifted the object out, freeing it from the casket. How long had it lain there? Hard to say at this point. Best guess? Given the Occitan cross, sometime in the past eight hundred years. Which wasn’t saying much.
She laid the object on the ground and parted the moldy silk.
Revealing a book.
Its binding fashioned of a tooled, dark brown leather. About twenty millimeters tall and twelve wide. In the center of the front cover lay a raised medallion consisting of two gilt concentric circles enclosing a stylized rose that glowed red and purple in the late morning sun. It reminded her of Notre Dame’s famous rose window in miniature. Dozens of chipped rubies and amethyst stones were set into the leather to create a startling resemblance. The top and bottom outer corners were covered with gold protectors and, in the middle of the right edge, a gold clasp held the pages together. Staining of the edges evidenced moisture damage.
“When would you date it?” she asked Viktor, interested in his opinion.
“Thirteenth to 14th century, based on the decoration,” he said, pointing at the cover. “But the outside can be quite different from inside. The cover could have been reused.”
She agreed.
They’d seen that before.
She carefully undid the clasp and opened the book to reveal an illuminated manuscript. They were all stunned by the quality of the work, riveted by its beauty and rarity. On the title page were the words Libre de las Õras, Book of Hours, in Occitan.
“That’s odd,” she said. “Not Latin.”
Viktor nodded. “That is unusual.”
The pages were highly illustrated with the anthropomorphic initials of monks, most likely the artists themselves. The indigos, emeralds, and crimsons seemed as resplendent as if they’d been painted yesterday. Every letter, finished in chrysography—a mix of powdered gold and gum—glowed in the sunlight.
She slowly turned the page.
A braid, painted in gold and silver, bordered on the right and left. The left braid enclosed an elaborate figurative biblical scene, still clear, untouched by time. On the right historiated letters, with an illustration inside, led off a block of text. Every millimeter of white space was filled with complex floral motifs utilizing silver and gold, along with more blues, greens, and reds. She turned to another equally magnificent page, rich with designs that the eye could not resist.
“Illuminated manuscripts of this quality are rare,” she said.
Viktor nodded. “Tell me about it. This one is a beauty.”
Shelby, at Cassiopeia’s elbow, clicked away, her camera recording each reveal. The sound caught Cassiopeia’s attention and brought her back to reality.
“Okay, show’s over,” she said. “We need to get this inside and sealed away. The middle of a construction site isn’t the best place to study such a precious find. And all of you need to get back to work.”
The crowd dispersed and she and Viktor rewrapped the book.
“My father would have loved this,” she said.
“Something else he collected?” Viktor asked.
She smiled. “Sometimes I think he had no choice but to become successful, just to indulge his passion for art.”
“Lucky man that he was a billionaire.”
“He was nothing if not determined and disciplined. He had a great interest in hand-painted religious tomes. He admired monks who lived in isolation, hunched over their desks in scriptoria. I think he was a little jealous of them.”
“Jealous?”
“They had a freedom in their isolation that he never enjoyed. The time needed to create infinite beauty. As he called it.”
Illuminated manuscripts were the picture books, the coffee-table books, of the Middle Ages. Hard to produce and expensive. Reserved for special texts, like a Bible. Or, like here, a Book of Hours, which noted prayers appropriate for different times in the liturgical day. Many of the wealthy possessed such a book. They were mainly created in monasteries, but she knew that commercial scriptoria eventually appeared in big cities, like Paris. What one was doing buried in the south of France was anybody’s guess.
A mystery.
She loved mysteries.
Her friend Nicodème, who curated the Museum of Mysteries in Eze, loved them too and might be of some assistance. Perhaps she’d give him a call.
Right now, she needed to protect the find.
She lifted the book, set it back inside the chest, and turned to leave.
A chill ran down her spine. Where’d that come from? She glanced around at the construction site.
Nothing unusual or strange in sight.
So she walked away.
Bothered.
Chapter 2
Cassiopeia poured her morning cup of black coffee and sat at the rector’s table with her toast and two hard boiled eggs. Aristotle said all human actions have one or more of seven causes. Chance, nature, compulsions, habit, reason, passion, desire. For her, habit seemed most prevalent, though the passion part sounded better every day.
She wondered what Cotton was doing.
They’d not been able to see one another for nearly two weeks.
He was the love of her life. That much she now knew. But where their relationship was headed seemed unknown. They stayed apart more than together and she often wondered if that was what fueled their desire. Both of them were type-A personalities who liked their space. But they cherished each other too. They’d made a pact not to lie to one another and to always be honest about their feelings. But they’d both violated that agreement on more than one occasion. Still, he was her best friend and she his, and that said it all.
She opened her laptop and perused online copies of L’Indépendent, Midi Libre, and La Tribune. Not much happening in the world today. When she clicked on the daily edition of Nouvelles de l’art she saw that the art news periodical featured a familiar photograph.
The gold casket from yesterday.
She navigated to an interior page with an article and more images, all taken, as noted, at the medieval construction site of Givors. There was a shot of the Book of Hours’ cover with its rose window decoration. A close-up of the historiated letter O with its illustration of the Annunciation to the Virgin. And another of the book opened to a double page, spread out in all its glory. Wrapped around the photos was text describing the discovery, all with Shelby Randall’s photo credit and byline.
She shook her head.
Shelby should have asked if it was all right to publish the pictures and the story. They’d had an agreement that nothing would be released without prior approval. Granted, publicity for the dig site was always welcome. That was why she’d allowed the woman to be there in the first place. Donations in the hundreds of thousands of euros came in each year from public and charitable foundations, all going toward the building costs, which she supplemented with her personal fortune. School groups and college interns were a regular. Every summer she held a two-week symposium, open to credentialed historians.
But this was exploitation.
And Shelby had ignored their agreement.
That matter needed immediate attention.
She stood and left the dining room, heading back upstairs to her bedroom on the second floor to change into work clothes. The chateau was four storied, and there was nothing feudal about it, as it had been built with comfort and beauty as a nobleman’s hunting lodge. By the time she bought it, the building was deteriorating. She’d restored the original look outside and gutted the inside, keeping the feel, but installing all of the modern conveniences. None of the former bareness existed, nor was it over-luxuriant with irrelevant things there to impress people. She’d stuck to period furnishings, though. Which she liked. All here was tranquil and respectable. Her home. So its new name had been symbolic of the peace it provided.
Matval.
Meditative.
&nb
sp; She entered her bedroom and heard the doorbell chime. A recording of the ancient ringing in St. Mark’s Campanile that she’d had specially recorded.
A visitor?
This early?
She stepped back to the open doorway of her bedroom and heard the voice of her major domo, Bernard, who’d been caretaker of the chateau since she bought it. Cotton Malone sat at the top of the list of those she trusted implicitly. Bernard was a close second. She heard the door close, then footsteps climbing to the second floor. She retreated into her bathroom, waiting for Bernard’s soft knock, which came.
She invited him in.
“A gentleman to see you,” he said. “Monsieur Roland Beláncourt.” Bernard handed her a card. “No appointment. And quite early in the day.”
She caught the reservation in his voice that said, yet the man had driven all the way out here to see her.
She studied the card and noticed the discreet logo of a blue wing with gold trim in the upper right corner. The Beláncourt name and that logo was plastered on the sides of planes all over the world. It was an aerospace giant that built jets, missiles, stealth fighters, even spacecraft for the European Space Research people. She’d seen Roland Beláncourt’s picture in newspapers and magazines and remembered the story of how, as a boy, he’d almost been killed after the small plane he and his father were flying crashed. Rather than avoid the sky, the incident spurred him on to become an aerospace engineer, making billions in the process.
He was also a generous philanthropist. Especially to Catholic causes. She recalled reading an article about a tiny chapel near Cannes where he’d paid to renovate an altar painting that turned out to be an original Tintoretto. He then hired an artist to create a copy for the chapel and arranged for the original to hang in the Louvre.
Now he was here.