The Secret Of The Cathars (2011) Read online

  - Author’s Note -

  For those unaware of the history of the Cathars I provide the following brief note.

  The Cathars were a mediaeval heretic sect living in Languedoc, which is the area around Carcassonne in Southern France at the Mediterranean end of the Pyrenees. In the twelfth century the Languedoc was ruled by the Count of Toulouse who was theoretically vassal to the King of France. But in practice the region was a semi-independent buffer state between France, the kingdom of Aragon and Aquitaine which was under the control of the English crown. A variety of cultural influences (including Islam) had centred on the area and this had resulted in the Languedoc becoming one of the most civilised regions of mediaeval Europe - the land of the troubadours; the centre of knightly conduct; the home of individual liberty.

  The official religion of Languedoc was Roman Catholic Christianity, as it was of the neighbouring states. However the influence of the Church of Rome was weak and generally unpopular. Many of the clergy were either idle or absent. Under these conditions the Cathar heresy became so strong that it began to supplant the official religion. It was tolerated, if not actually encouraged, by successive Counts of Toulouse. Rome could not allow this situation to continue and in 1208 Pope Innocent III declared the holy war against the Cathars which has since become known as the Albigensian Crusade - the only ever crusade against a Christian population.

  For reasons mainly of territorial expansion, the French king, Philip II, accepted nominal leadership of the Crusade after initial hesitation. However it was his liege Simon de Montfort who led the campaign until his death in 1218. Gradually the superior forces of France and her allies overcame Cathar resistance until they were driven back into the spectacular mountain-top eyrie of Montsegur. After a siege lasting nearly ten months the final two hundred perfecti (senior adherents of the sect) surrendered on the first of March, 1244.

  The terms of the surrender were unusual in that the occupants of the fortress were allowed to remain there for a further two weeks before they had to give themselves up to abjure their heretical beliefs or be burned as heretics. Towards the end of this period they carried out some kind of religious festival, the details of which have not been recorded, before they marched out to their doom. They also left behind four of their number who escaped down the sheer cliffs on the north east side of the castle the following night with the “treasure of the Cathars”. Neither the four men nor the treasure were ever discovered.

  Coincidentally legend has it that the same region was a stronghold of the Order of the Knights Templar. The Templars were an international body whose headquarters was later based in Paris. However at least one Cathar was a Grand Master of the Order. The castle of le Bezu is marked on maps as “Chateau des Templiers”. Sixty-three years after the Cathars surrendered, all the Templars in France were arrested by the orders of King Philip IV (Philippe le Bel) on Friday thirteenth October 1307. The king, as well as believing they had become too strong for him to manage, also wanted to seize their immense wealth. However in this he was unsuccessful. The templar treasure was either spirited away by sea (nobody knows where) or else carefully hidden and, despite imprisoning and torturing their leaders, it was never recovered.

  - 1 -

  Philip Sinclair entered the building from the gloomy London street and looked at the list of companies on the notice board in the unmanned reception hall. Half-way down was the name he wanted - Smythe and Baker, Solicitors - fourth floor.

  He sighed. He’d had enough of lawyers in the last few months. Now he wondered what this lot wanted. His mind went back to the telephone call he’d received when he was a few days ago.

  “Ah, Mr Sinclair - at last! I’ve been trying to contact you for several weeks.” There was an accusing note in the voice. “The woman at the address we had for you said that nobody of your name lived there, even though it was your name against the number in the telephone directory.”

  “Oh, that would be my mother-in-law - er - my ex-mother-in-law. She’s been trying to pretend that I didn’t exist for some time.”

  “Yes - well.” The throat was cleared. “My name is Baker. It’s important that I see you as soon as possible, Mr Sinclair. Can you come to my office?”

  Now here he was, somewhat unwillingly, clutching his recently received copy of the decree absolute and wondering what on earth still had to be cleared up about this messy divorce.

  He went over to the lifts. A sign said that one was temporarily out of use. He pressed the button to summon the other one but it seemed to be obstinately stuck at the seventh floor. So after a couple of minutes he gave up waiting and started to slowly climb the stairs.

  He wasn’t looking forward to another session of legal complaints and advice. One thing he was certain about - they wouldn’t be able to get much out of him. By now he had little left in the way of personal savings. That had all been gobbled up by his rapacious mother-in-law or the various lawyers she had employed to ensure that her dear little Madeline received every last pound and item of property that she could get.

  He didn’t really blame Madeline. She just carried on with her merry round of parties and shopping and more parties, somehow managing to consume the majority of two decent salaries in the process. Occasionally she had slipped into the odd male bed to relieve the boredom of being married. It was when Philip committed the sin of deciding that he’d had enough that mother-in-law had taken over.

  Puffing more than he should, he reached the fourth floor. Straight in front of him was an obscured glass door with ‘Smythe and Baker - Solicitors’ inscribed on it in bold gilt letters. After a slight hesitation he raised his hand and pressed the buzzer. Various noises emitted from the grille below the button but nothing else happened.

  After about a half a minute a metallic female voice said, “Please press the buzzer again and the lock will release for fifteen seconds. Just push the door open and walk in.”

  He obediently did as he was instructed and found he had entered a rather expensive-looking reception area. It reinforced his nasty feeling that this interview was going to cost him a lot of money.

  The unsmiling, carefully-groomed young lady behind the reception desk paused from her important work to look up at him. “The entry system is standard,” she said and Philip noticed the metallic tone was missing.

  “Really? Oh, sorry.” He restrained himself from adding, “I would have hated to make you get up and walk ten feet to open the door,” in case the sarcasm might cost him more money.

  “Please take a seat.”

  He obediently sat on the edge of the nearest chair and waited patiently, hoping to be economical. After a few minutes the receptionist broke off from her important work and picked up the phone. There was a pause before she said, “James? Mr Sinclair has arrived.” She replaced the phone and looked at Philip. “He will be with you as soon as he’s free.”

  The words were hardly out of her mouth when a short, middle-aged, balding man bounded out of one of the glass doors. He had a round, pink face and wore half-moon glasses.

  “Welcome, Mr Sinclair.” He held his hand straight out in front of him to be shaken. His smile seemed to be genuine. Philip found himself liking the man. He hoped he wasn’t going to be too expensive.

  “Come into my office.”

  Philip followed him out of the ultra-modern reception area into a typically old-fashioned lawyer’s office. All the walls, except where there were windows or doors, were covered from floor to ceiling with deep shelves. And all the shelves were stacked high with dusty old books or bundles of papers tied up with pink ribbon.

  “Please take a seat.” Baker removed two files from a chair and made a show of dusting off the seat. Then he went
round to the far side of his desk.

  “Now, what did I want to talk to you about?” He shuffled through the stacks of paper on his desk until he found the file he wanted, already waiting on his blotter. “Ah, yes.” He picked up the file and took his seat.

  After opening it and studying the first sheet of paper he resumed. “Ha-hmm. I apologise, but before I talk to you about this matter, I need you to provide proof of identity. Do you have one of the new-fangled photo driving licences?”

  Philip took out his wallet and extracted the seven-year-old piece of plastic which he passed to the solicitor. Baker studied both the back and front of it carefully. He squinted at the photo through his glasses. Then he gazed across the desk at Philip with his disconcertingly pale blue eyes.

  “Yes,” he said at last, “I think that will do.” He handed back the card. “Well, Mr Sinclair, my name is James Baker. I am dealing with the estate of Mrs Marie Sinclair.”

  “Her estate? Do you mean grandmother’s dead?”

  Baker lowered his head. “I’m afraid so. Three weeks ago. It’s taken me that long to find you.”

  “Oh, dear. Poor old gran. I feel awful. I should have been there.”

  The solicitor leaned forward. “I don’t know that you would have been able to help. I understand her death came quite suddenly.”

  Philip sighed. “I’m afraid I’ve been so wrapped up in my own problems that I haven’t been in touch with her recently. I should have thought more about her.”

  “Well.” Baker smiled sympathetically. “I hadn’t seen anything of her myself for more than a year. She came to visit me here, soon after your father died, to alter her will in your favour. That was in January of last year. Even then, at the age of ninety-two, she was still a doughty old lady.”

  “How did she die?”

  “I understand it was a heart attack. She had a mild one at home and was admitted to hospital in Yeovil. A few hours later she had a second, more serious one. It was that which killed her.”

  “Has the funeral taken place?”

  Baker nodded. “Last Thursday in Templecombe. I did attend to represent you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “She has been buried in the local churchyard. A headstone has been erected near the tower, in case you wish to visit some time.”

  Philip smiled. Perhaps he’d have time to do that now.

  “While I was there,” continued Baker, “I was given a bag containing her keys and some of her personal possessions which I have here for you. An unsealed letter, addressed to you, was in the bag. I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of reading it in case there was anything important that I should deal with.” The man looked embarrassed. “You see, I didn’t know when I would be able to get hold of you.”

  He laid the file back on the blotter and took out the envelope which he handed across the desk to Philip. “The contents are quite unusual.”

  Philip lifted the flap of the envelope and took out two sheets of paper which were filled with writing in his grandmother’s small neat hand. He could almost hear her old but decisive voice as he started to read.

  Dear Philip,

  Since the death of your father, you are now the last of the Sinclairs - a family name which goes back nearly a thousand years. Although I was disappointed to hear of your divorce from Madeline, I must confess I was not surprised. Those university romances which take place in that cloistered setting often do not last. I suppose twelve years is quite a long time in this modern world. And I hope the divorce will give you an opportunity to meet a young woman who will be able to give you children to continue the Sinclair line.

  By the time you read this, you will probably be aware that I have named you as my heir. You may not be enthusiastic about inheriting the large old house in Templecombe which has been the home of the Sinclairs since they came from France more than seven centuries ago. However I ask you not to sell the place, even if you can’t bring yourself to live in it.

  You will find there is a substantial sum of money left to you, even after paying death duties. I am happy that you should do with this as you please but I ask you to promise me to spend some of it on a task which I wish to set for you.

  Some time ago I discovered some interesting documents in the loft which go back to the building of the house by Phillipe de Saint Claire. He was a Cathar perfectus who escaped from the fall of Montsegur in 1244. Among the other papers there was a journal written by Phillipe about his experiences. It was written in a language of old Occitan - the common language in the South of France in those days. It took me many years to translate it. You will find my translation in the drawer beside my bed and I ask you to read it.

  When you do, you will see that it describes Phillipe’s escape with part of ‘The Secret Treasure of the Cathars’ tied to his back and how he hid it in a castle in the Pyrenees called le Bezu. The task I now set you is to go to this castle, do your best to attempt to find the hiding-place he describes and, if possible, try to recover it for the Sinclair family as your legitimate inheritance.

  Of course, I appreciate that French officialdom or the owners of the castle may prevent you from taking possession of it. However I would expect you to do your best to find out what the secret is and to publicise it for the wider information of mankind.

  May I wish you the best of luck with this task and the full enjoyment of your inheritance in the future.

  Philip put down the letter and looked across at James Baker who smiled and raised his eyebrows.

  “I told you it was unusual.”

  Philip grinned. “She doesn’t ask much, does she?”

  “I don’t know about that. It’s a perfectly practical task. I understand that you have no family ties to prevent you from going to France.”

  “But I’ve got no idea how long it will take.”

  “It’s only a long day’s drive from the channel ports. Surely you can take a fortnight’s holiday to visit the place. That should give you an idea of the size of the problem.”

  “And I don’t know what it would cost.”

  Baker leaned forward. “I don’t think the question of cost should be a problem. I’ve done a quick assessment of your grandmother’s assets and, after all expenses and death duties are paid, I estimate the estate will be worth well over a hundred thousand pounds. That’s not including the house in Templecombe.”

  Philip whistled. “A hundred thousand pounds? I’m going to get that much?”

  The solicitor nodded.

  “And I came here expecting to have to pay you money.”

  “How nice it is,” said James Baker, “to be the bearer of good tidings.”

  Philip took a deep breath. “Well,” he said, “at the weekend I’d better go down to Templecombe and look for this journal. Perhaps it will give me some idea of the problems I’m likely to encounter.”

  “I have the keys here.” Baker rose and went to the corner of the room where a dark blue duffle bag lay. He picked it up and passed it to the young man. “The keys are in there, together with various other personal items and several hundred pounds in cash. Your grandmother seemed to want to be well provided for when she went into hospital. It’s all yours.”

  “Once I’ve found out something about this place - le Bezu, I’ll have to talk to my employers about a holiday. I must say I feel I could do with one.”

  “I could let you have an initial cheque for ten thousand after I obtain probate - probably in about two weeks.”

  “Ten thousand pounds?”

  Baker nodded. “That’s right. I would have to hang on to the rest until I’ve settled all the bills and paid the Inland Revenue - say two to three months.”

  “So I could arrange for my holiday to start in about three weeks?”

  “That seems perfectly possible. Leave me your home address and telephone numbers and I will contact you when I’ve got the cheque ready.”

  “One thing I need to check,” said Philip, “is exactly when my gran died.”

&n
bsp; He left with the delightful information that Marie Sinclair had died two days after the decree absolute was issued. That meant his ex-mother-in-law wouldn’t be able to sink her claws into any of his inheritance. She would be furious.

  In the smart reception lobby he scandalised the receptionist by blowing her a kiss as he went. On the landing outside he found that the lift was waiting for him with the doors open. As he walked out of the building the sun came out to brighten the dull London street.

  - 2 -

  Andre Jolyon pulled the Land Cruiser into the lay-by.

  “This is as close as we’re going to get.”

  Jacqueline climbed down from the passenger seat and walked round to the front of the car, her slim body moving easily. She rested one hand on the warm bonnet and gazed up at the small part she could see of the ruins of the chateau, clinging to the series of precipitous rocky peaks which projected from the forested slopes.

  Andre leaned on the steering wheel and watched her. A teasing wind was blowing a veil of dark hair across her cheek and partly obscuring the beautiful Viking blue eyes which had captivated her TV audiences. He had admitted to himself a while ago that he was in love with her. He certainly didn’t want to be anywhere else but in her company. He knew his devotion was a waste of effort. The emotion wasn’t returned. Jacqueline Blontard was already the most famous archaeologist in France, and as far as he knew she had reached the age of thirty-two without losing her heart to anybody. With a sigh he pushed open the door and joined her in front of the vehicle.

  “There it is then, Jo.” She linked her arm through his. “Not much to see, is there?”

  “Is it worth all the effort?” As far as he knew she had been camping outside the Department of Ancient Monuments for nearly a year to get permission to excavate at this location. But he didn’t understand why it was so important to her.

  “We won’t know until we get up there and start clearing away more than five hundred years of vegetation and detritus.” She turned and grinned at him in that heart-stopping way that had made her such a hit on television. “Come on. Let’s go up and have a look around.”