Unannounced.

Before eight in the morning.

And she was curious.

She entered the library.

The room was lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling, two stories high. Over eight thousand volumes. Most quite valuable. Some from her grandfather and father’s collection she’d inherited, most she’d bought herself. Cotton, as a lifelong bibliophile, loved her collection. A spiral staircase tucked into one corner wound up to a railed gallery that cat-walked around the room and offered access to the upper shelves. She’d always liked the view from up there.

Beláncourt appeared utterly at ease as he greeted her.

He was tall, tawny of hair and moustache, and broad shouldered. His face was clean shaven, highlighting dark, wary eyes and a sly curve to thin lips. He wore an expensive suit, tailor cut to his slim frame, and fashionable Italian loafers. The clear aristocratic stature, his lean aquiline jawline, and the fine prominence of his cheekbones all screamed of a man who stayed in perfect command over himself.

But this was her home.

Where she was in charge.

“So good to meet you,” she said in French. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this unannounced visit at so early an hour?”

“Your castle project is quite impressive. I took a moment and admired it before knocking on your door.”

She caught the misdirection. He was posturing. Trying to assume control.

“How can I help you?” she asked, not offering him a seat.

“No coffee or tea?”

“I’m assuming you’ve already had your breakfast. I have a full schedule today. And, as I mentioned, we don’t have an appointment. So how can I help you?”

“I apologize for being so bold. But I can be impatient when I want something.”

“And what is it you want?”

“I would like to purchase the illustrated manuscript you recently discovered. Simply name your price.”

News traveled fast. “You saw the article in Nouvelles de l’art?”

“I did.”

“And came straight here?”

He smiled. “The advantages of owning a fast helicopter.”

“It’s not for sale.”

“I’m willing to pay any price you ask. Think of how much faster your construction project would go with a heavy infusion of cash.”

“I’m not poor. Which I’m sure you already know.”

“Of course. Terra is well known around the world. I am quite familiar with your family’s company.”

She ignored the compliment, which seemed designed to disarm her.

“The manuscript isn’t for sale. At any price. It’s going to be part of the exhibition of rare medieval objects found here at the site when our museum eventually opens.”

“How admirable. But I would like to add your find to my own collection.”

“Unfortunately, that’s not possible.”

“You do understand the meaning of any price?” he asked.

“Do you understand the meaning of the word no?”

“Mademoiselle Vitt, this will all be much more amicable if you just name a price and we make a deal.”

She almost smiled at his persistence. “I don’t imagine this is going to be amicable at all. There simply is no price.”

He sighed. “I was hoping that we would be able to come to terms. There is always a price. Today it was to be money. Tomorrow?” He shrugged. “Who knows?”

She caught the hint of a threat.

“Let it not be said that I did not try.” He gave her a slight bow before turning for the door. “No need to show me out. I can find the way. And, Mademoiselle Vitt, please know that my initial offer is always my best offer. From that point on, my negotiations only go down.”

He walked toward the door.

“Monsieur Beláncourt.”

He stopped and faced her.

“If you ever come here again. Which I hope you don’t. Call first.”

Chapter 3

The Perfecti leaned against the rough trunk of a tall pine and used its low-hanging branches and spring needles as camouflage. Sunlight sieved through the canopy overhead, spotting the ground. The sodden forest around her reeked with the dank smell of soaked earth.

Cassiopeia Vitt’s chateau stood in the distance in a sheltered hollow, trees all around affording maximum seclusion. Its four levels of dark red stone and brick were arranged in artistically symmetrical patterns, topped by a slate roof and framed by ivy-crowned towers. The old moat remained, a mere remnant of its former glory, now filled with emerald grass.

And thus, they say, God created His angels of such nature from the beginning that they could at their pleasure do good or evil, and they call this ‘free will’ or, according to some of them, ‘choice.’ Both mean a certain free strength, or power, by which he to whom it is given is equally capable of good or evil.

She muttered the ancient words from the Book of Two Principles, which always seemed to bring strength in times of stress.

Like now.

Such a peaceful picture the chateau offered. She knew its name. Matval. Peace. It seemed fitting. And if she cared about aesthetics she might be impressed by the wealth and stature the building represented, along with the remarkable castle that was being erected not far away, but she’d never been swayed by the accoutrements of refinement. Money meant nothing, power even less. What she cared about was a resurrection. A redemption of the Bons Òmes, Good Men, Bonas Femnas, Good Women, and Bons Crestians, the Good Christians.

She watched through her binoculars as Roland Beláncourt emerged from the chateau’s front door. She’d been shocked to see him drive up a few minutes ago. He’d apparently noticed the archeological find online too and moved fast. But he was leaving empty handed. That meant he’d not been able to buy the book.

May he rot on this earth for eternity.

He had no right to the sacred object. None at all. If the book pictured in the online article was what she believed it to be, then it belonged to the faithful.

And no one else.

A Google alert she’d maintained for years had sent her to the Nouvelles de l’art site. Of the posted

images, two had offered critical clues. The first had been the book’s cover detailing the rose window and cross. The second was the photo of two facing inside pages, rich with illustration, the text all in Occitan. In the highly decorative artwork she’d noticed the Cathar symbols. She’d also spotted the repeated Occitan crosses creating a patterned background on the right side of the page. Interwoven into the crosses were stylized doves. That bird could be found carved in the same sleek way into rocks throughout the Languedoc, where Cathars once flourished in abundance. A free flying dove symbolized peace, of being in a state of grace, of being held close in God’s wonderful love.

Come ye blessed of my Father, possess you the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me to eat. I was thirsty and you gave me to drink.

She was sure.

The map had been found.

And now she stood a few hundred meters away from that precious book. Elated on the one hand, relieved on the other that Beláncourt had walked out without it, but frustrated that she had no idea how to obtain it.

She’d traveled to Givors to meet the woman she’d read about in the story. Cassiopeia Vitt. Definitely a person of power and wealth. But also of the past. A lover of history. Which might bode well. Perhaps Vitt would at least show her the book. Just a few moments with it might be enough to learn its secret. Beláncourt showing up here seemed an unexpected verification that this could be it. He owned one of the largest collections of illuminated manuscripts in private hands. But he’d left the chateau without it. Which meant she had no chance to buy it either, especially since her financial resources were infinitesimal compared to an aerospace magnate.

Bless us, bless us, O Lord God, the Father of the spirits of good men, and help us in all that we wish to do.

And help was what she needed.

The ancient souls protecting the book had made sure she’d come here. The good spirits that guided all her waking actions had determined that she would reach this spot just behind Beláncourt.

Why?

Tags: Steve Berry Cassiopeia Vitt Mystery
Source: readsnovelonline.net