The Book of Love (50 page)

Maureen rose to follow him, happy enough to get away from the tragedy of the labyrinth’s disgrace. Peter led them to the south transept and pointed out the first window on the right. It was dedicated to an Italian saint who was the first bishop of Ravenna, Saint Apollinaris.

“He was a disciple of Saint Peter, credited with a number of miracles, which are depicted here in the glass. But I don’t think it’s the specific saint here that we are concerned with,” he explained. “Rather, it’s that circular hole in the window, right up there.”

A circle of white light shone through the darker colors of the window via a hole that appeared to be cut deliberately on the right edge.

Peter pointed to the ground just a few feet away from where they were standing. “See that flagstone there in the floor? The one that is set at an angle from the rest?”

Bérenger nodded. “It’s a different color, lighter than the others. And obviously set differently. It’s meant to stand out.” He hunkered down to run his hand over the stone and smiled. “And look at this, there’s a brass spike hammered into the stone.
X
marks the spot.”

“Which means?” Maureen wasn’t following entirely.

Bérenger explained. “Do you remember when we met for the first time in Saint-Sulpice?” The question was rhetorical; the day they met had changed both their lives indelibly and neither would ever forget it. But that meeting had also been arranged specifically to occur on the summer solstice, on June 21, because Bérenger wanted to demonstrate to Maureen just how precise the builders of the church at Saint-Sulpice had been. Those architects had marked the solstice through a brass line embedded in the floor. At midday on the solstice, the sun shone through the windows and illuminated the brass.

“A similar event occurs here. At midday tomorrow, the sun will
shine through that hole in the window, specifically illuminating that brass nail in the slantways stone, marking the high point of the longest day of the year.”

Maureen understood now. “Which means it is a celebration of light, marking the moment of strongest sunlight in the entire calendar.”

“Illumination,” Peter said softly, causing both of them to turn and stare at him. There was profound insight in that simple word. “It’s a celebration of the illumination which can occur in this sacred space.”

They all stood together for a moment, in quiet appreciation of the architects, masons, and astronomers who must have worked in extraordinary unison to create such an anomaly over eight hundred years ago.

“The orchestration of such a thing is phenomenal,” Maureen observed. “Every aspect of this cathedral had to be created with absolute intention. Nothing in here is random. Nothing. I can feel that in my bones; it screams from every inch of this extraordinary, holy place.”

They sat in the pews adjacent to window 10, facing the northern rose window and the lancets below it. The central figure was an enormous image of Saint Anne, depicted in the style of a black madonna.

“Like that. That’s specific. Saint Anne as a black madonna, and she is centric. She’s all over this cathedral, and in each case she is represented in a position of authority and important placement. That cannot be an accident.”

“I can’t vouch for the presence of Saint Anne, but I can say this.” This was Peter again. “The Gothic movement begins not long after Matilda’s death, roughly in 1130, and it just appears out of nowhere. But it’s not really Gothic, is it? It doesn’t come from the Visi
goths
, who were by most accounts a barbaric and warlike people who were hardly given to delicate artistry in stone and glass.”

Bérenger jumped into a topic he had some background in. “That’s because the phrase
Gothic art
is a translation error. The original phrase that applied to what we call the Gothic cathedrals wasn’t
art gothique
but rather
argotique. Argotique
is a word that means ‘slang,’ and refers to a specific lost dialect. The great alchemist Fulcanelli said that
argo
tique
was a ‘language peculiar to all who wished to communicate without being understood by outsiders.’”

Peter nodded his understanding. “So you’re saying that this cathedral isn’t the ‘art of the Goths’ but rather art encoded with a special and secret language.”

“For those with ears to hear,” Maureen added.

“Exactly.
Argotique
was also called the language of outlaws, which certainly describes the heretic cultures.”

Peter continued, even more animated now. “It all fits beautifully. Suddenly in the twelfth century, there are over twenty Gothic cathedrals under construction, and just as suddenly, there appear stonemasons, mathematicians, architects, and glaziers who know exactly how to execute these previously unheard-of masterpieces of architecture—and art that is encoded.”

Maureen and Bérenger were both listening closely now. Peter rarely dissertated like this; when he did, it was necessary to pay close attention. It was obvious that this was something he had been thinking about a lot in his recent research.

“This movement in architecture springs up, almost overnight, and flourishes,” Peter continued. “Yet no one knows how or why. Equally, no one knows who financed these cathedrals, particularly not this one. There is intention here, as you pointed out, Maureen. There is will. And a strong one. But why, and why here? There is something privileged about Chartres, and it goes beyond anything that the guidebooks and the traditional Church will tell us.”

“So what do you think the answer is, Pete?”

He paused for a moment, very serious, before turning to smile at his cousin and answering with a single name. “Matilda.”

Maureen was floored by the unexpected answer. “Matilda?”

Father Peter Healy nodded. “She was devoted to architecture. Look at how much she loved building Orval, at how she challenged the architects and builders of her time with the size and shape of the arches. And what do we know about the Libro Rosso? It contained secret architectural drawings. Where did those drawings come from? From Je
sus. Where did Jesus get them? They were passed down through his exalted family lineage, from none other than Solomon himself, and perhaps Sheba as well.”

Maureen added, thinking out loud, “In Matilda’s retelling of the Solomon and Sheba legend, she reminds us that the Sabeans were known as the People of Architecture and that the queen was the founder of schools for sculptors in stone.”

Peter nodded his agreement; this was his precise point. “And we have seen on the exterior that both Solomon and Sheba are well represented with at least two life-sized sculptures, as are elements of the original temple.”

The enormity of it hit Bérenger first. “So are we saying that Chartres—and in essence the entire Gothic movement—was potentially started by Matilda? And that it was based on original drawings from Solomon’s Temple?”

“As preserved by the Order in the Libro Rosso,” Maureen jumped in, brimming with excitement over the idea. “And…brought to Chartres. By Conn and the Master? My God…”

Peter continued the thought, speaking very fast now, proving that he had been devising this theory for some time. “It all works. Remember that Fulbert rebuilt the cathedral after the fire in 1020. But there is another fire, even more catastrophic, that destroys everything but the crypt in 1134. Maybe it was an accident, maybe it wasn’t. But the cathedral was completely rebuilt on a new and unprecedented model and becomes the masterpiece of art and architecture that it is today. The height of this vaulting has never been matched, anywhere in the world.”

Maureen instantly felt guilty about her earlier annoyance with Peter. He had come a long way in two years. This was a stunning theory, and a progressive one.

Bérenger continued to build upon the idea. “So it’s about thirty years from 1100, which is roughly when Conn and the Master come to Chartres, to 1134, when reconstruction begins here. We know they were eventually joined by Patricio, who was the architectural master
mind, along with Matilda, of the magnificent Orval. They would have had enough time to perfect the techniques, the plans, and the geometry, to begin construction on an entirely new type of temple. And perhaps even to train an entire generation in those principles and techniques. Then there is another fire in the next century, after which even more elaborate ornamentation is created for the new elements.”

Maureen finished the thought. “Because now the residents here were truly expert in all the architectural modalities needed to create this kind of perfection.”

They were strolling slowly through the cathedral now, talking, thinking, allowing the vastness of the place and its history to sink in. Bérenger stopped them in front of the famous window in the south ambulatory. “Here she is, the queen of Chartres,” he explained, pointing at the lovely madonna and child that towered over them. “She is called Notre Dame de la Belle Verriere, Our Lady of the Beautiful Window, and you can see why. She is the oldest surviving piece of stained glass, here since 1137.” The magnificent madonna, which had been called “the most beautiful stained glass in the world,” was entirely regal in her golden crown, set with jewels and topped with fleurs-de-lis, and gowned in the most exquisite blue, the famous Chartres blue that could not be duplicated, which was set off by an intense red background. Photographs did not do justice to the hues that shone through the glass in the morning sunlight. Behind her and atop the throne was a fortress-style castle, and an enormous white dove, the emblem of the Holy Spirit, hovered over the figure of the madonna and her son.

“The official Church position is that this cathedral is dedicated to the Virgin Mary, and that all the madonna images in here are her in various guises. But I think we can all agree among ourselves that there are several Marys depicted,” said Bérenger.

“Agreed,” Peter added. “But at the risk of Maureen kicking me in the shins, I need to say something else.” They continued to walk around the curvature of the ambulatory until Peter stopped them before a chapel on the northeast side that held a large and exquisite reliquary. Within the panes of clear glass, a draped length of white silk was dis
played. “The
Sancta Camisa.
The Veil of the Virgin. This is one of the holiest relics in Christendom, and it has been here in Chartres since the ninth century. Everyone will tell you that this is why the cathedral is dedicated to the Virgin Mary, which is as it should be.”

Maureen responded. “I wouldn’t dispute that for a moment. I’ve said it before but it bears repeating. It has never been my intention to diminish the importance of Jesus’ mother. Far from it. I think she was chosen to give birth to him and to raise him because she was singularly brilliant and strong and pure of heart and spirit. I’m just saying that it doesn’t end with her, does it? And based on all the images of her mother, Saint Anne, here in the cathedral, I’m also willing to say that it didn’t begin with her. And she, of all people, probably wouldn’t want us to think that it did.”

Each year on the twenty-first of June, the archdiocese of Chartres allowed the labyrinth to be uncovered. Knowing this, Maureen, Bérenger, and Peter met Tammy and Roland for an early breakfast and planned to get to the cathedral shortly after it opened. All of them were anxious to see the labyrinth and to walk its eleven circuits. Tammy and Roland had arrived the night before, in time for a late dinner. Thankfully, the French tradition of lengthy evening meals allowed time to catch up on recent events.

As the five of them arrived at the steps of the western entrance, Maureen noticed that there was a different man standing on the steps today. He also held out a scallop shell for his contributions, and he too was singing. But as they grew nearer, she stopped to listen to him, tapping Tammy, who was speaking to Bérenger, on the shoulder. “Shh. Listen.”

The man, who appeared spry enough despite his aged appearance, was standing sideways, visible only in profile as the little group approached the steps. This appeared to be intentional: he was deliberately not looking at any of them. He was singing, softly yet clearly, and Maureen got a chill as she heard the song in accented English.

But it was the second verse, the one seldom heard in the school yard, that grabbed Maureen in the heart every time. It made her cry, it always had. Only recently did she understand why.

As the man sang the last line, he turned to face Maureen full on, causing her to stop dead in her tracks.

One entire side of his weathered face was puckered in a scar that zigzagged from the top of his cheekbone into his neck.

“Destino.”

Maureen said it as the old man smiled at her and nodded. The others, coming up behind her, were beginning to understand what had just transpired. But while all of them had their own reasons for being here, the man they would call Destino was clearly focused on Maureen. The others stood back and allowed them to talk, waiting on the steps of the cathedral in the growing warmth as the first day of summer approached.

“I have…so many questions,” Maureen said, at a loss to know where to start.

“We have time, Madonna. Plenty of time. I will answer one now but the rest will have to wait as we must all go inside. There is something we must do together and we must do it soon.”

Maureen noticed the specific cadence of his accent and commented on it. “You’re Italian?”

“Is that the one question you want me to answer now?”

“No! Give me a second.” This was like having a genie ask if you were certain of your wish. Maureen had to be sure she chose wisely. After a moment of thought, she asked, “How did you know what was in my dreams? And know it exactly? How did you know the exact words that Easa spoke to me?”