Order's way. But the interregnum was a time of debate. Free discussion was how the collective decided which course it would follow.
'Is that the extent of your challenge?' the seneschal asked.
'For too long the brothers have been excluded from the decision process. We have not been consulted, nor has the counsel we offered been heeded.'
'This is not a democracy,' the seneschal said.
'Nor would I want it to be. But it is a brotherhood. One based on common needs and community goals. Each of us has pledged his life and possessions. We do not deserve to be ignored.'
De Roquefort's voice had a calculating and deflationary effect. The seneschal noted that none of the others stirred the solemnity of the challenge and, for an instant, the sanctity that had for so long loomed within the chapel seemed tainted. He felt as if he was surrounded by men of a different mind and purpose. One word kept ringing through his mind.
Revolt.
'What would you have us do?' the seneschal asked.
'Our master does not deserve the usual respect.'
He stayed rigid and made the required inquiry, 'Do you call for a vote?'
'I do.'
Rule required a vote, when demanded, on all issues during the interregnum. With no master, they governed as a whole. To the remaining brothers, whose faces he could not see, he said, 'A show of hands as to who would deny our master his rightful place in the Chronicles.'
Some arms went up immediately. Others hesitated. He gave them the full two minutes that Rule required to make their decision. Then he counted.
Two hundred ninety-one arms pointed to heaven.
'Greater than the required seventy percent are in favor of the challenge.' He repressed his anger. 'Our master shall be denied in the Chronicles.' He could not believe he'd said the words. May his old friend forgive him. He stepped away from the coffin, back toward the altar. 'Since you have no respect for our departed leader, you are dismissed. For those who wish to participate, I will proceed to the Hall of Fathers in one hour.'
The brothers filed out in silence until only de Roquefort remained. The Frenchman approached the coffin. Confidence showed on his rugged face. 'It is the price he pays for cowardice.'
No need for appearances existed any longer. 'You will regret what you just did.'
'The student thinks himself master? I look forward to the conclave.'
'You will destroy us.'
'I will resurrect us. The world needs to know the truth. What happened all those centuries ago was wrong, and it is time to right that wrong.'
The seneschal didn't disagree with that conclusion, but there was another point. 'There was no need to desecrate a good man.'
'Good to who? You? I was treated with contempt.'
'Which is far more than you deserved.'
A grim smile spread across de Roquefort's pale face. 'Your protector is no more. It's now just you and me.'
'I look forward to the battle.'
'As do I.' De Roquefort paused. 'Thirty percent of the brotherhood did not support me, so I will leave it to you and them to say goodbye to our master.'
His enemy turned and paraded from the chapel. The seneschal waited until the doors had closed, then laid a trembling hand on the coffin. A network of hate, treachery, and fanaticism was closing around him. He heard again his words to the master from yesterday.
I respect the power of our adversaries.
He'd just sparred with his adversary and lost.
Which did not bode well for the hours ahead.
SIXTEEN
11:30 AM
MALONE TURNED THE RENTAL CAR EAST OFF THE MAIN HIGHWAY, just outside Couiza, and started up a twisting incline. The rising road offered stunning vistas of nearby tawny hillsides thick with summer rock roses, lavender, and thyme. The lofty ruins of a fortress, its charred walls standing like gaunt fingers, rose in the distance. The land, as far as the eye could see, oozed the romance of history when marauding knights swooped like eagles from the fortified heights to prey on their foe.
He and Stephanie had left Copenhagen around four AM and flown to Paris, where they caught the first Air France shuttle of the day south for Toulouse. An hour later they were on the ground and motoring southwest into the region known as the Languedoc.
On the way Stephanie told him about the village that stood fifteen hundred feet atop the bleak mound they were now climbing. Gauls were the first to inhabit the hilltop, drawn by the prospect of being able to see for miles across the expansive Aude River valley. But it was the Visigoths in the fifth century who built a citadel and adopted the ancient Celtic name for the location-Rhedae, which meant 'chariot'-eventually developing the place into a trading center. Two hundred years later, when the Visigoths were driven south into Spain, the Franks converted Rhedae into a royal city. By the thirteenth century, though, the town's status had declined, and toward the end of the Albigensian Crusade it was razed. Ownership passed through several wealthy houses of both France and Spain, eventually resting with one of Simon de Montfort's lieutenants, who founded a barony. The family built themselves a chateau, around which a tiny hamlet sprouted, and the name eventually changed from Rhedae to Rennes-le- Chateau. Their issue ruled the land and the town until 1781, when the last heir, Marie d'Hautpoul de Blanchefort, died.
'Before her death, it was said that she passed on a great secret,' Stephanie had said, 'one that her family kept for centuries. She was childless and her husband died before her, so with no one left, she told the secret to her confessor, the abbe Antoine Bigou, who was the parish priest for Rennes.'
Now, as Malone stared ahead at the last bend in the narrow road, he imagined what it must have been like to live then in such a remote place. The isolated valleys formed a perfect repository for both fleeing fugitives and restless pilgrims. Easy to see why the region had become a theme park for the imagination, a mecca for mystery buffs and new agers, a place where writers with a unique vision could forge a reputation.
Like Lars Nelle.
The town came into view. He slowed the car and eased through a gate framed by limestone pillars. A sign warned FOUILLES INTERDITES. Excavating prohibited.
'They had to post a notice about digging?' he asked.
Stephanie nodded. 'Years ago, people were shoveling dirt in every corner looking for treasure. Even dynamiting. It had to be regulated.'
Daylight dimmed beyond the town gate. The limestone buildings were packed tight, like books on a shelf, many with pitched roofs, thick doors, and rusted iron verandas. A narrow and flinty grand rue wound up a short incline. People with backpacks and Michelin Green Guides hugged the walls on either side, parading single-file back and forth. Malone saw a couple of stores, a bookshop, and a restaurant. Alleys led off the main rue to nests of buildings, but not many. The entire town was less than five hundred yards across.
'Only about a hundred people live here full time,' Stephanie said. 'Though fifty thousand visit each year.'
'Lars had quite an effect.'
