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That was obvious.
So she would know her enemy.
Piss on the Catholics.
Eight hundred years had passed since the pope declared war on the Cathars, all backed by a hollow promise. Give us forty days’ service and your place in Paradise will be assured. All your sins will be forgiven, and not only those you have committed, but also any that you may now commit.
What a lie.
That war had been something new. Not a fight against infidels. Instead, a campaign of Christians killing Christians.
The Albigensian Crusade.
And for nearly fifty years the people of the Languedoc had been systematically slaughtered.
The main target?
Bons Crestians.
Who’d grown in numbers and influence. A new form of Christianity that stretched across what would later be called northern Spain and southern France, known then as Occitània.
A place of unique cultural identity. Where the races blended to produce strong, determined individuals who respected truth and character. Much more aligned with Aragon and Catalonia than Paris, there were different forms of land ownership, different ways to inherit, even another language, Occitan.
Which had all added up to a threat.
The word Cathar evolved from the Greek katharos, meaning pure. And a simple mandate governed. No one who did not live the teachings of Christ could minister to others. Title meant nothing. Money even less. Only the intrinsic value of the soul counted. No matter a person’s standing in life, noble or the poorest of peasant, the same opportunity to preach was available to all.
Man or woman.
For the Cathars they were equal.
Cathars had no need for a church to intercede with God on their behalf. Instead, Christ was directly accessible. They believed that the earthly world, all the majesty of nature that now surrounded her, was the work of the God of Evil, created as a distraction. The God of Good, the Pure Spirit, was incapable of creating physical matter. The inhabitants of the earth were but spirits, trapped here in physical bodies, in a place of the devil’s creation, until such time as they could transform and ascend to the God of Good.
There were two types of believers.
Simple, who were the vast majority.
And the perfected ones.
The Perfecti.
Good Men and Women who vowed to live an ideal life, in service, ministering to the believers. They swore to take no life of any creature having breath, whether human or animal, and eat no meat. They refrained from carnal activities, from lying, taking oaths, or speaking ill of others. They held close the faith of Christ and his gospel, as the apostles taught, not how a church redefined them. So devoted were they that, among the thousands tortured and killed by the Albigensian crusaders, only one Perfecti ever betrayed the faith.
Piss on his soul.
The Good Ones also despised the Cross. A crucified Christ was an impossibility. Jesus was created by God, a physical man not to be crucified, but a spirit to lead others toward a better existence. They worshipped Christ, the Son of Mary, but not in the same way as Catholics. Incense, oils, statues, churches, and sacraments were all creations of the physical world, inherently evil distractions, which must be avoided.
It all made sense.
And people believed by the thousands.
They abandoned the appalling simony of the Catholic clergy, who extorted tithes, kept mistresses, and sold sacraments. The extreme purity of life and disinterest in wealth won the Cathars respect from the local nobility. Even better the Good Ones represented no threat to temporal power, unlike Rome who continually meddled in politics. The simplicity of dualism outweighed the pope’s heavy hand. And when the Bishop of Toulouse openly censured the Catholic clergy and denounced the Church, things began to come to a head.
Priests were sent to sway the faithful back into the fold.
When that failed, armies came next, doing God’s business, calling themselves pilgrims.
Piss on them too.
So many sieges.
Béziers, Carcassonne, Bram, Lavaur, Lastours, Saissac, Minerve, Termes, Les Cassés, Puivert, Toulouse, Muret, Castelnaudary, Foix, Beaucaire, Marmande.
So many burnings. Torture. Death.
Her heart still hurt for the suffering.
Unlike their fellow Christians, Cathars were pacifists and did not fight back. Instead, the local nobles took up arms for them, trying to repel the invaders. It all ended in 1244 with the fall of Montségur, though Cathars continued to be burned alive for another hundred years.
Piss on the Inquisition.
Although He knew fully and foresaw from eternity the fate of all His angels, His wisdom and providence did not make His angels become demons. They became demons and things of evil by their own will, because they did not wish to remain holy and humble before their Lord, but wickedly puffed themselves up in pride against Him.
The time had come for a rebirth.
The Good Men and Women would live again.
But to accomplish that she needed the Book of Hours. Standing in the woods adjacent to Cassiopeia Vitt’s chateau, she now knew that the God of Good had bestowed a second chance.
The message clear.
Come what may. No matter what it took. She must prevail.
She heard a noise behind her and turned.
A deer emerged from the woods, then meandered off.
She smiled at the wonder.
Death did not scare her. It never scared a Cathar. For it was merely a release from this evil world. A moment of freedom, when the soul would finally ascend to the God of Good’s realm, leaving the devil behind.
That lack of fear gave her an edge.
One she planned to use to full advantage.
Chapter 4
Cassiopeia glanced at the clock.
7:28 a.m.
Yesterday had been a mixed bag. First the unexpected visit of Roland Beláncourt, then the rest of the day spent mulling over the significance of a book from some eight hundred years ago. Last night sleep had been hard to find and, when it finally arrived, it came in fitful bursts. Beláncourt’s parting comment kept echoing through her mind. Please know that my initial offer is always my best offer. From that point on, my negotiations only go down.
Definitely a warning.
Luckily, it took a lot more than that to scare her.
In her bathrobe, she stood in the kitchen and waited at the espresso machine as it delivered its magical elixir into a tiny Limoges cup. During her remodeling the original 17th century kitchen had been removed and the room restored to somewhat of its original appearance from three hundred years ago, save for the addition of modern appliances, most sheathed with veneers that matched the wainscoting on the walls. Clever and imaginative. But also functional. The interior designer she’d employed from Marseille had done an excellent job.
Her parents had instilled in her a sense of purpose, responsibility, and independence. From that came confidence. Her training in martial arts and in the use of firearms had further boosted her self-esteem.
Yes, she knew fear.
But she also knew how to control it.
She carried her espresso from the kitchen and navigated a labyrinthine set of hallways to her private study. The cozy space had originally been a smoking room that the Duc of Givors had utilized after building the first chateau. Dark dreary rooms, no matter how well lit, depressed her. So she’d stripped the walls and replaced the paneling with a light, airy plaster, keeping the rich moldings and intricate parquet floor. Two walls were fronted by bookshelves that, unlike the library where it was all collectibles, were her personal books, on subjects like architecture, history and mythology. Her Roentgen writing desk faced the east wall, where French doors led out to a stone terrace edging a rose garden.
She opened the doors and allowed in the morning breeze. Clumps of laurel and honeysuckle bloomed. As did the roses. While breeding roses to be infection-resistant, scientists had sacrificed smell for hardiness. She’d searched ou
t the older breeds like Cécile Brünner, Marie Pavié, and the Fairy, which retained their intoxicating waft. True, they were much more work and a bit fragile, but worth it.
Like so much in life.
She sat at her desk, opened the laptop, and switched on the music. Her morning fare consisted of Gregorian chants, and the sonorous otherworldly tones of the Benedictine Monks filled the room. She loved the sounds, which reached deep into her soul and soothed her psyche. The power of music healed. No question. She’d seen that happen with animals, children, the sick, and the elderly. There was something unexplained about its unfelt power. Not God. Not magic. Just a tonic for the soul.
She sipped her coffee and enjoyed the moment.
She loved her parents for leaving her a life of such freedom and choice. Had she been the best daughter? Hard to say. But they’d been wonderful parents.
She laid the cup down and clicked on the email icon, perusing the list to see what, if anything, required immediate attention. Those from Terra corporate headquarters would have to be read. But later. As the sole shareholder and owner, she was kept informed of major decisions. Not micro-management, as that was not her style, but enough for her to be informed.
She forwarded three emails with subject interview request to the publicist she kept on retainer, the same one who’d recommended Shelby. Like Cotton would say, she and Shelby would have to take a trip to the woodshed. Nothing the young woman had done had been good. She saw a response to a note, with images, she’d sent the day before to an illuminated manuscript scholar at Paris’ Collège de France asking for help with her find. The professor expressed an interest in working with her.
