My son, and in many ways I thought of you as that, I knew that de Roquefort would prevail in the conclave, but it was important that you challenge him. The brothers will recall that when your time truly arrives. For now, your destiny is elsewhere. Brother Geoffrey will be your companion.
I have faith that prior to leaving the abbey you secured the two volumes that have held your attention the past few years. Yes, I was aware of your interest. I, too, read both long ago. Theft of Order property is a serious breach of Rule, but let us not consider it a theft, merely a borrowing, as I'm sure you will return both books. The information they contain, along with what you already know, is supremely potent. Unfortunately, the puzzle is not solved solely by it. There is more to the riddle, and that is what you must now discover. Contrary to what you might think, I do not know the answer. But de Roquefort cannot be allowed to obtain the Great Devise. He knows much, including all of what you have managed to extract from our records, so do not underestimate his resolve.
It was critical that you leave the confines of our cloistered life. Much awaits you. Though I write these words in the final weeks of my life, I can only assume that your departure was not without violence. Do what is necessary to complete your quest. Masters for centuries have left words for their successors, my predecessor included. Of all who came before me, you alone possess enough of the pieces to reassemble the entire puzzle. I would have liked to have accomplished that goal with you in my lifetime, but it was not to be. De Roquefort would have never allowed our success. With brother Geoffrey's help you can now succeed. I wish you well. Take care of yourself and Geoffrey. Be patient with the lad, for he does only what I have bound him to do by oath.
The seneschal looked up at Geoffrey and wanted to know, 'How old are you?'
'Twenty-nine.'
'You bear a lot of responsibility for one so young.'
'I was frightened when the master told me what he expected of me. I didn't want the duty.'
'Why didn't he tell me directly?'
Geoffrey did not immediately answer. 'The master said you withdraw in the face of controversy and shy away from confrontation. You do not, as yet, know yourself fully.'
He was stung by the rebuke, but Geoffrey's look of truth and innocence stamped great emphasis onto his words. And they were true. He'd never been one to search for a fight and had avoided every one that he could.
But not this time.
He'd confronted de Roquefort head-on and would have shot him dead if the Frenchmen had not reacted quickly. This time he planned to fight. He cleared his throat of emotion and asked, 'What am I to do?'
The waiter returned with two salads, crusty bread, and cheese.
Geoffrey smiled. 'First, we eat. I'm starved.'
He grinned. 'Then what?'
'Only you can tell us that.'
He shook his head at Geoffrey's fervor of hope. Actually, he'd already given their next move thought on the drive north from the abbey. And a comforting resolve formed as he realized there was only one place to go.
THIRTY-FOUR
5:30 PM
MALONE STARED UP AT THE PALACE OF THE POPES, WHICH stretched skyward a hundred yards away. He, Stephanie, and Claridon were sitting at an outdoor cafe in a lively square directly adjacent to the main entrance. A north wind swept in from across the nearby Rhone-the mistral, as the locals called it-and banged through the city unchecked. Malone recalled a medieval proverb that spoke to the foul smells that once filled these streets. Windy Avignon, with the wind loathsome, without the wind poisonous. And what had Petrarch called the place? The most odiferous on earth.
From a tour book he'd learned that the mass of architecture rising before him, at once a palace, fortress, and shrine, was in reality two buildings-the old palace built by Pope Benedict XII, begun in 1334, and the new palace erected under Clement VI, finished in 1352. Both reflected the personality of their creators. The old palace was a measure of Romanesque conservatism with little flair, while the new palace exuded a Gothic embellishment. Unfortunately, both buildings had been ravaged by fire and, during the French Revolution, looted, their sculpture destroyed, all of the frescoes whitewashed. In 1810 the palace was turned into a barracks. The city of Avignon assumed control in 1906, but restoration was delayed until the 1960s. Two wings were now a convention center and the rest a grand tourist attraction that offered only fleeting glances of its former glory.
'Time we enter,' Claridon said. 'The last tour starts in ten minutes. We must be a part.'
Malone stood. 'What are we going to do?'
Thunder eased past overhead.
'The abbe Bigou, to whom Marie d'Hautpoul de Blanchefort told her great family secret, would, from time to time, visit the palace and admire the paintings. That was before the Revolution, so many were still on display. Lars discovered there was one in particular he loved. When Lars rediscovered the cryptogram, he also found a reference to a painting.'
'What kind of reference?' Malone asked.
'In the parish register for the church at Rennes-le-Chateau, on the day he left France for Spain in 1793, Abbe Bigou made a final entry that read, Lisez les Regles du Caridad. '
Malone silently translated. Read the Rules of the Caridad.
'Sauniere found that particular entry and secreted it away. Luckily, the register was never destroyed, and Lars ultimately found it. Apparently, Sauniere learned that Bigou had visited Avignon often. By Sauniere's time, the late nineteenth century, the palace was nothing but a gutted shell. But Sauniere could have easily discovered that there'd been a painting here in Bigou's time, Reading the Rules of the Caridad, by Juan de Valdes Leal.'
'I assume the painting is still inside?' Malone asked, staring across the expansive courtyard toward the Chapeaux Galo, the palace's central gate.
Claridon shook his head. 'Long gone. Destroyed by fire fifty years ago.'
More thunder rumbled.
'Then why are we here?' Stephanie asked.
Malone tossed a few euros on the table and let his glance dart to another outdoor cafe two doors away. While others were heading off in anticipation of the coming storm, one woman sat under an awning and sipped from a cup. His gaze lingered only for an instant, enough for him to note well-cut features and prominent eyes. Her skin was the color of creamed coffee, her manner gracious when a waiter delivered her meal. He'd noticed her ten minutes ago, after they first sat, and he'd wondered.
Now for the test.
He grabbed a paper napkin from the table and balled it into his closed fist.
'In that unpublished manuscript,' Claridon was saying, 'the one I told you Noel Corbu wrote about Sauniere and Rennes, which Lars found, Corbu talked about the painting and knew Bigou referred to it in the parish register. Corbu also noted that a lithograph of the painting was still in the palace archives. He'd seen it. In the week before he died, Lars finally learned where in the archives. We were to go inside for a look, but Lars never returned to Avignon.'
'And he didn't tell you where?' Malone asked.
'No, monsieur.'
'There's no mention in the notebook about a painting,' Malone said. 'I read the whole thing. Not a word on Avignon.'
'If Lars didn't tell you where the lithograph is, why are we going inside?' Stephanie asked. 'You don't know where to look.'
'But your son did, the day before he died. He and I were to go inside the palace for a look when he returned
