The Omega Factor(50)
She hated—
No.
Resented her prioress for casting that shadow.
She had to know more. She could not allow this to go unchecked. So she found the cell phone she’d been provided on arriving in Ghent and dialed her convent in France. She was connected with the presiding sister and explained the necessity to speak with the prioress. She had no way of contacting the woman directly.
Ten minutes later the cell phone rang.
“I know what you did with that laptop,” she told her superior.
“And how would you know that?”
“We set you up and tracked the computer. You took it straight to the Maidens of Saint-Michael. I want to speak with you. Now. In person.”
“I do not take orders from you,” the older woman said.
“Fine. Then you can speak to the police.”
Silence.
“All right. Where would you like to meet?”
Claire remained unnerved by the amount of conflict exhibited at the gathering. The maidens had seemed a nervous coalition of doves and hawks. She on one side, the abbess on the other. Rarely had they so deeply disagreed. But rarely had so difficult a quandary been presented.
The order traced its origins to nine women who formed themselves into an organized group sometime around AD 250. It happened nearby, in the region known as the Roussillon. Best guess was the village of Las Illas, about twelve miles away from the current motherhouse. They remained a loose, covert association, membership passed from mother to daughter, until the eighth century, when they petitioned the local bishop for permission to form a religious order. That charter still existed in their archives, along with a report dated November 10, 1009, which noted an abbey had been built “on the mountain by a group of women, consecrated by the Bishop of Elne in honor of the Blessed Virgin Mary and the Archangel Michael.” The land had been donated by Count Wilfred and his wife who enriched and endowed the new group. Two years later Pope Sergius IV issued a papal bull that declared “from now on, no king, no prince, no marquis, no count, no judge, no bishop, no priest will take it on himself to commit any act of violence, invasion or subjugation in this convent or its outbuildings.”
And none had for over a thousand years.
But threats had materialized every now and then.
By the twelfth century, women had been effectively subjugated in the church, the powerful abbesses and prioress gone, male monasteries rising in size and influence. Women were forbidden from the altar, school, and conclave, cloistered away in solitude and generally ignored. Which had allowed for an even greater level of secrecy among the maidens. The worst threat came in the early part of the fifteenth century from an unlikely source. A Belgian artist named Jan van Eyck was chased into the valley below the motherhouse by Moors who’d pursued him north across the border. He’d apparently been spying on them, something they took great offense toward. But they’d halted their attack once confronted with the quebrantahuesos.
Bone smasher.
The Vulture.
Le Vautour in French.
She gently caressed her left shoulder through her gray smock. The image had been tattooed into her skin two years after she took her final vows. After she was thoroughly vetted and schooled. After she was trained, saw the truth for herself, and took one more vow.
To Veritas Vita.
The truth, the life.
Sadly, the painter van Eyck had not respected their secrecy. Thankfully, though, he knew precious little about them, and the revelation he left within the Ghent Altarpiece was not discovered for centuries.
But it was discovered.
They’d hoped time would eradicate the problem, and to some extent it had. But the Vatican refused to allow it to fade away. The Just Judges disappearing in 1934 had helped, as it removed a vital element in the puzzle. But now the painting had reemerged. Should they have moved on it? No. Better to leave it alone, and hope the Vatican did the same. That was her position weeks ago and it remained her position. But all that was academic now, as the damage had been done.
Her phone buzzed.
She’d been waiting for a report. She answered, listened to what had happened, then told the maidens on the ground in Ghent, “We have no choice. Make contact with Lee again and find out what he wants. Reveal nothing. Learn what you can about the images. Above all, contain this disaster.”
She ended the call.
A soft tap came to the door of her room.
Her abbess entered.
Claire explained about Nicholas Lee and his commandeering of the images and the additional copies, then said, “If he wants to help, let’s use him until we no longer have to.”
“I agree,” the abbess said. “Sister Deal has also become more of a problem. I have it somewhat under control, but we need her contained.”
She understood.
“With your permission, I’ll take care of her myself.”
Chapter 33
Archbishop Vilamur motored into the graveled lot at Montségur and parked the car, the ride from Toulouse a little less than two hours. He’d made the trek many times in the past, visiting and inspecting the various parishes that stretched to the south toward Spain. There’d been no choice but to respond to the summons. That video would be the end of him, and he needed to learn more before Cardinal Fuentes arrived. He’d come to believe that whoever was masterminding this whole endeavor was intent on a result different from simply exposing the sins of a sexual predator. If that were the sole object, then it would have already happened, without the additional drama.