The Omega Factor(90)

And that day was coming.

He had strong support within the College of Cardinals, more than enough to emerge as a serious contender. Many cardinals voted for themselves on the first ballot. Some just wanted to hear their name called out. A once-in-a-lifetime thing. Others did it to alert their brethren that they were interested in the job. But the serious contenders? The ones with a genuine shot to win? They voted for themselves simply to add one more to the tally they’d already established. And if that initial count came in hearty, then all challengers would know the race was on.

And he was ready.

But he was not unmindful of the idiom.

He who enters the conclave a pope, leaves a cardinal.

A warning about campaigning for the papacy, one many had not taken to heart. There’d not been a Spanish pope since Alexander VI at the turn of the sixteenth century. Not a man to emulate either. A Borgia. Ascended the ranks through nepotism. Kept multiple mistresses. Fathered several children. Bought his way to the papal throne with bribes. Regarded as one of the most corrupt popes in history.

He’d definitely do better.

He and Archbishop Vilamur had driven south from Toulouse in a diocese vehicle. They were now standing in a paved car park at the base of Mount Canigou, just outside the small town that sat below the Maidens of Saint-Michael’s motherhouse. From the signage it appeared this was where visitors left their vehicles before making the trek up to the abbey. Only one other car was there, and a sign that normally displayed the hours the abbey was open for tours sported an over-sign that indicated the site was closed today.

Interesting.

Apparently, they were expected.

“Gerard,” he said to Vilamur, “once we arrive up at the abbey, I will need your help to gain access. They will ignore my requests, but they would be hard-pressed to keep the doors locked to their archbishop.”

He’d intentionally not said much on the trip. Nor had Vilamur said much hours ago on the nocturnal return to the rectory, after they’d dealt with de Foix. He decided that perhaps some explanation was now in order. “I told you yesterday that popes were fools. But these maidens? They are anything but fools. Which is why they have remained hidden for so long.”

“How did you know they exist? To know to even look for them?”

He was waiting for the others to arrive, so he decided a bit more explanation was in order. Especially to a new ally.

“By the thirteenth century and the Albigensian Crusade, Marian worship was firmly entrenched within the Church. She had her backstory, feast days, and countless churches dedicated to her. She possessed a cult of worship and had become a vital part of our religion. But there’s also The Testimony of John, which contradicted one of the basic tenets of the Blessed Virgin. She did not ascend body and soul into heaven. She died and was buried here on earth. Rome has long been aware of les Vautours and their connection to a possible tomb for Mary. How? I have no idea. That information has been lost. But during the Albigensian Crusade, Pope Innocent III instructed the Dominicans to find them. They tried, repeatedly, but were not successful. They did manage to locate a copy of The Testimony of John, which was hidden away in the Vatican.” He paused. “Then, in 1933, a new document was found in the Vatican archives. An odd manuscript. But telling. Would you like to read it?”

Vilamur nodded.

He stepped back to the car, found the iPad in his briefcase, and opened to the file. He handed it to Vilamur. “This is a translation into English. It came to us in Flemish. We are not aware of its origins, but the best guess is it was written by Lambert, Jan van Eyck’s brother, who completed Jan’s unfinished works after Jan’s death in 1441.”

He watched as Vilamur read from the screen.

Praise and glory for the work,

Of paintings made by the one called Jan.

Born in Maaseik, the Flemish Apelles.

Study diligently, understand, and you will see.

Through his eye for detail we see his patience.

And it is just as clear that he has a grand memory.

Come, you art lovers of all sorts,

And look at this precious treasure of paint.

You will deem Saint Peter’s wealth as nothing

Because this is the true heavenly treasure.

Come, but with diligence and wisdom,

And pay attention to all things, as you will notice

That there is a line to abundancy

Because even a maid wants to make

A best impression and be praised.

Who wouldn’t be rejoiced by those devotees,

Since all could learn some purity.

Notice how triumphant those judges ride

Toward kings, princes, counts and lords.

Notice the faces, along with the maid,

All things can be seen, toward and past her

And how well you will understand

Where she rests in peace.

Look how sound and honorable are the parts,

Of elders and clergy, standing and lying.

Here you see nothing but extraordinary,

Examples of all that is good.

But among the judges one sees the princely painters,

All the faces dissimilar, decorated with gracefulness

And without error, save for two.

His flower shot early off this world.

The one who came from Maaseik.

His life ended in Bruges.

But he will live for eternity

Among the holy.