Once the fire had subsided, her naked body was exposed for all to see. She was still recognizable, chained to the stake, most of her flesh charred away. This final indignity revealed, as one observer noted, 揳ll that belonged to a woman.?Important since many had believed she was a man. When they抎 seen enough, the executioner poured oil, charcoal, and sulfur on the carcass and set it afire again. It burned for hours, past nightfall, reducing the flesh and bone to ash.
The executioner had been ordered to toss all of the remains into the river so as to discourage any relic hunters. But the man had been greatly affected by the death, proclaiming that 搘e have burned a saint.?He was not diligent in returning and fulfilling his duties. So under the cover of darkness three women gathered the warm ashes from the pyre and stole them away. What was eventually thrown into the water were the ashes from three sheep that had been butchered and burned by those women a few days earlier.
Those three women had not been ordinary. Like Joan herself, they possessed a deep resolve and an unwavering commitment, each bound by oath. They were maidens. As was Joan. All of them part of a group that carried an ancient name. One bestowed on them out of respect and fear.
Les Vautours.
The Vultures.
Apt because, like their namesake, they never killed.
Joan herself had come to the maidens only a few months before the voices started in her head. She抎 left the motherhouse and ventured north, throwing herself into the Hundred Years?War. Her impetuousness and stubbornness had generated success, but eventually they both led to her death.
At a mere nineteen years old.
But other maidens had risked their life to make sure that her remains were brought back to hallowed ground.
Claire had always drawn strength from thinking about those past maidens, especially Joan. Extraordinary women who pledged themselves to an extraordinary mission, one that had never been in favor with the Roman Catholic Church. Quite the contrary, in fact. So much so that, during the Albigensian Crusade, an effort had been made to locate and eradicate les Vautours along with the Cathars.
Which failed.
The one saving grace of tonight was that no public announcement had come revealing that the original Just Judges had been found. For whatever reason cathedral authorities had not, as yet, released that information. Perhaps they had been waiting to see if the laptop could be retrieved, as it was the only evidence to back up their claims. The idea had been to destroy the panel and retrieve the electronic images before any announcement ever happened. Half that goal had been accomplished. They needed to finish the job. Because once the world was told about what had actually been destroyed, the Vatican would know les Vautours had struck.
And it would act.
What a mess. Sister Rachel was exposed. The convent in Ghent had been violated. And far too many directional markers now existed. Which those in the know?
Could easily follow.
Bernat sat on the terrace and enjoyed the solitude. The time was approaching midnight. Carcassonne had settled down for the night, the lights in the distance fewer and farther between. The day had been both a success and failure. He抎 been waiting for this moment his entire adult life, ever since he discovered the truth about himself. He抎 long lived by a single mantra. One of long standing in the Languedoc. Qui court deux li鑦res ?la fois, n抏n prend aucun. He who runs after two hares at the same time, catches neither.
So true.
Concentrate on one task at a time and devote your full attention to it. Trying to accomplish two things at once usually produced double mediocrity. Something well done was something done with dedication. Phase one was complete with the confession of Father Tallard. Andre had duly recorded everything, the e-file now waiting for him in his inbox, ready for phase two.
Qui n抋vance pas, recule.
Another important mantra.
He who does not move forward, recedes.
Life does not stand still. There was only evolution or devolution. Expect poison from the standing water, the English poet William Blake once wrote. How true. To be stagnant was the same as to recede. He had to persevere. Move ahead. And he intended to do just that.
A text from the curator in Ghent an hour ago had told him that the electronic images had been recovered. Excellent. Things might be salvageable on that end. Finding the original Just Judges had been a sure thing. A way to finally establish himself within the art world and generate some worldwide notoriety. He was grateful for his inside information. True, Cathar beliefs about the evil of the physical world remained, and wealth was definitely part of that, but some modern accommodations had been made to ancient doctrine, all brought about by being nearly wiped out.