The Omega Factor(80)
“But did you have any challenges?”
More silence.
“I didn’t think so,” she said. “Look, I realize the Dominicans have changed everything. But I’m just a schoolteacher from Louisiana who answered the call in her head, and now finds herself at the epicenter of a storm that has raged for centuries. I’m doing the best I can.”
“But you keep falling short. Focus on the task,” the prioress said. “We can debate all this later.”
And the call ended.
Damn that woman was obstinate.
She was hungry and made a note to stop at the first opportunity that food was available. The car needed more gas too. A road sign indicated that Reims was twenty kilometers ahead. She’d purposefully avoided any roads through or around the snarl and blare of Paris, staying east in the French countryside, her intended route moving from Reims to Dijon to Lyon to Montpellier, then Perpignan and west into the mountains. Four-laned autoroute nearly the whole way. Another sign indicated that a service area was coming up soon. Unlike back in the States, none of the commercial establishments were off the exits. Instead, they were built between the four lanes where drivers from either direction could make use of the gas pumps, food, bathrooms, and rest areas. They came at regular intervals and she’d make a stop at the next one parking the car off to the side, away from any bright lights. At this late hour there should not be too many people around. It seemed that everything she’d devoted the better part of her adult life to would come down to the next day or so.
“You will not have died in vain,” she said to Rachel in the back seat.
And she meant it.
Women had been living in the abbey atop Mount Canigou for over a thousand years. Each was the successor to other women who’d assumed a duty starting around AD 50. Those first few had buried the Blessed Virgin in a place only they knew, and then assumed stewardship over the tomb, passing their guardianship down from mother to daughter. They’d survived countless wars, the Albigensian Crusade, the French Revolution, and repeated attempts by Rome to discover their presence. Eventually, they evolved into a religious order, which made their task much easier, and for over a thousand years the maidens had performed admirably.
Only a tiny portion of those who attempted to join were allowed to stay. The most dedicated and determined, she’d been told. Women who freely swore allegiance to God and the Virgin. Every single person who’d done that was recorded in the Books of Honor. Volume after volume that noted the date of final vows and date of death. Rachel’s entry would now be amended to add her date of death, then she would be afforded her final rites, as had been extended to maidens all the way back to Joan of Arc and before. Claire had presided over many such solemn occasions. But all of those maidens had died from natural causes.
This was different.
She muttered out loud three Hail Marys and asked for strength.
Catechism declared that through that prayer a person rendered to God the highest praise and most gracious thanks, because He bestowed all His heavenly gifts on the most holy Virgin. Never be afraid to earnestly implore Her help and assistance as She is most desirous to assist. As a Christian, a practicing Catholic, and a daughter of Christ she believed that to be true.
But as a maiden—
Sworn by oath as a Vautour.
She had her doubts.
Chapter 52
Bernat was dragged from the car, his hands bound behind his back, his mouth taped shut. Two men had burst into his bedroom, roused him from a sound sleep, then forcibly removed him from his house. In the past, living outside of Toulouse amid the woods had been a blessing. He enjoyed the solitude. But now that refuge had turned into a liability, as there was no one around to see what was happening. He’d never alarmed the house or equipped it with cameras either.
There’d never seemed a need.
After all, it was nothing but physical objects that carried only a minimal amount of value. Eventually, he would shed himself of them all.
The best he could determine they were an hour to an hour and a half south of Toulouse, in the Pyrénées foothills. Darkness enveloped everything in thick shadows, the black sky overhead teeming with stars. His captors were two men, one tall, the other short and stout. They’d not said a word on the trip from his house, nor could he speak thanks to the gag. He was still in a state of shock and surprise. Never had he been so violated. He was unsure as to the men’s identity or affiliation, except for one thing.
The Holy Roman Church.
It had something to do with them.
Vilamur waited among the trees, watched as the car came to a stop, and Bernat de Foix was pulled from it. He and Cardinal Fuentes had come straight here from the rectory while Friars Dwight and Rice retrieved de Foix. He was unsure just exactly what was happening and what was going to happen, but he appreciated all of their efforts.
Desperate problems mandated desperate measures.
De Foix was bound and gagged. Not the cocky son of a bitch who’d sent threatening e-messages and summoned him to Montségur.
“Are you ready to face your son?” Fuentes softly asked.
“I’m ready to be rid of him.”
Bernat caught movement in the darkness and saw two people walking toward him through the trees. They came to within a couple of meters and, with eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw that one of the men was Vilamur.