CHAPTER 103
It was late afternoon when the London sun
broke through and the city began to dry.
Bezu Fache felt weary as he emerged from the
interrogation room and hailed a cab.
Sir Leigh Teabing had vociferously proclaimed
his innocence, and yet from his incoherent
rantings about the Holy Grail,
secret documents, and mysterious brotherhoods,
Fache suspected the wily historian was setting
the stage for his lawyers to plead an insanity
defense.
Sure, Fache thought.
Insane.
Teabing had displayed ingenious precision
in formulating a plan that protected his innocence
at every turn.
He had exploited both the Vatican and Opus
Dei, two groups that turned out to be completely
innocent.
His dirty work had been carried out unknowingly
by a fanatical monk and a desperate bishop.
More clever still, Teabing had situated his
electronic listening post in the one place
a man with polio could not possibly reach.
The actual surveillance had been carried out
by his manservant, Rémy—the lone person
privy to Teabing's true identity—now conveniently
dead of an allergic reaction.
Hardly the handiwork of someone lacking mental
faculties, Fache thought.
The information coming from Collet out of
Château Villette suggested that Teabing's
cunning ran so deep that Fache himself might
even learn from it.
To successfully hide bugs in some of Paris's
most powerful offices, the British historian
had turned to the Greeks.
Trojan horses.
Some of Teabing's intended targets received
lavish gifts of artwork, others unwittingly
bid at auctions in which Teabing had placed
specific lots.
In Saunière's case, the curator had received
a dinner invitation to Château Villette to
discuss the possibility of Teabing's funding
a new Da Vinci Wing at the Louvre.
Saunière's invitation had contained an innocuous
postscript expressing fascination with a robotic
knight that Saunière was rumored to have
built.
Bring him to dinner, Teabing had suggested.
Saunière apparently had done just that and
left the knight unattended long enough for
Rémy Legaludec to make one inconspicuous
addition.
Now, sitting in the back of the cab, Fache
closed his eyes.
One more thing to attend to before I return
to Paris.
The St. Mary's Hospital recovery room was
sunny.
"You've impressed us all," the nurse said,
smiling down at him.
"Nothing short of miraculous."
Bishop Aringarosa gave a weak smile.
"I have always been blessed."
The nurse finished puttering, leaving the
bishop alone.
The sunlight felt welcome and warm on his
face.
Last night had been the darkest night of his
life.
Despondently, he thought of Silas, whose body
had been found in the park.
Please forgive me, my son.
Aringarosa had longed for Silas to be part
of his glorious plan.
Last night, however, Aringarosa had
received a call from Bezu Fache, questioning
the bishop about his apparent connection to
a nun who had been murdered in Saint-Sulpice.
Aringarosa realized the evening had taken
a horrifying turn.
News of the four additional murders transformed
his horror to anguish.
Silas, what have you done!
Unable to reach the Teacher, the bishop knew
he had been cut loose.
Used.
The only way to stop the horrific chain of
events he had helped put in motion was to
confess everything to Fache, and from that
moment on, Aringarosa and Fache had been racing
to catch up with Silas before the Teacher
persuaded him to kill again.
Feeling bone weary, Aringarosa closed his
eyes and listened to the television coverage
of the arrest of a prominent British knight,
Sir Leigh Teabing.
The Teacher laid bare for all to see.
Teabing had caught wind of the Vatican's plans
to disassociate itself from Opus Dei.
He had chosen Aringarosa as the perfect pawn
in his plan.
After all, who more likely to leap blindly
after the Holy Grail than a man like myself
with everything to lose?
The Grail would have brought enormous power
to anyone who possessed it.
Leigh Teabing had protected his identity shrewdly—feigning
a French accent and a pious heart, and demanding
as payment the one thing he did not need—money.
Aringarosa had been far too eager to be suspicious.
The price tag of twenty million euro was paltry
when compared with the prize of obtaining
the Grail, and with the Vatican's separation
payment to Opus Dei, the finances had worked
nicely.
The blind see what they want to see.
Teabing's ultimate insult, of course, had
been to demand payment in Vatican bonds, such
that if anything went wrong, the investigation
would lead to Rome.
"I am glad to see you're well, My Lord."
Aringarosa recognized the gruff voice in the
doorway, but the face was unexpected—stern,
powerful features, slicked-back hair, and
a broad neck that strained against his dark
suit.
"Captain Fache?"
Aringarosa asked.
The compassion and concern the captain had
shown for Aringarosa's plight last night had
conjured images of a far gentler physique.
The captain approached the bed and hoisted
a familiar, heavy black briefcase onto a chair.
"I believe this belongs to you."
Aringarosa looked at the briefcase filled
with bonds and immediately looked away, feeling
only shame.
"Yes... thank you."
He paused while working his fingers across
the seam of his bedsheet, then continued.
"Captain, I have been giving this deep thought,
and I need to ask a favor of you."
"Of course."
"The families of those in Paris who Silas..."
He paused, swallowing the emotion.
"I realize no sum could possibly serve as
sufficient restitution, and yet, if you could
be kind enough to divide the contents of this
briefcase among them... the families of the
deceased."
Fache's dark eyes studied him a long moment.
"A virtuous gesture, My Lord.
I will see to it your wishes are carried out."
A heavy silence fell between them.
On the television, a lean French police officer
was giving a press conference in front of
a sprawling mansion.
Fache saw who it was and turned his attention
to the screen.
"Lieutenant Collet," a BBC reporter said,
her voice accusing.
"Last night, your captain publicly charged
two innocent people with murder.
Will Robert Langdon and Sophie Neveu be seeking
accountability from your department?
Will this cost Captain Fache his job?"
Lieutenant Collet's smile was tired but calm.
"It is my experience that Captain Bezu Fache
seldom makes mistakes.
I have not yet spoken to him on this matter,
but knowing how he operates, I suspect his
public manhunt for Agent Neveu and Mr. Langdon
was part of a ruse to lure out the real killer."
The reporters exchanged surprised looks.
Collet continued.
"Whether or not Mr. Langdon and Agent Neveu
were willing participants in the sting, I
do not know.
Captain Fache tends to keep his more creative
methods to himself.
All I can confirm at this point is that the
captain has successfully arrested the man
responsible, and that Mr. Langdon and Agent
Neveu are both innocent and safe."
Fache had a faint smile on his lips as he
turned back to Aringarosa.
"A good man, that Collet."
Several moments passed.
Finally, Fache ran his hand over his forehead,
slicking back his hair as he gazed down at
Aringarosa.
"My Lord, before I return to Paris, there
is one final matter I'd like to discuss—your
impromptu flight to London.
You bribed a pilot to change course.
In doing so, you broke a number of international
laws."
Aringarosa slumped.
"I was desperate."
"Yes.
As was the pilot when my men interrogated
him."
Fache reached in his pocket and produced a
purple amethyst ring with a familiar hand-tooled
mitre-crozier appliqué.
Aringarosa felt tears welling as he accepted
the ring and slipped it back on his finger.
"You've been so kind."
He held out his hand and clasped Fache's.
"Thank you."
Fache waved off the gesture, walking to the
window and gazing out at the city, his thoughts
obviously far away.
When he turned, there was an uncertainty about
him.
"My Lord, where do you go from here?"
Aringarosa had been asked the exact same question
as he left Castel Gandolfo the night before.
"I suspect my path is as uncertain as yours."
"Yes."
Fache paused.
"I suspect I will be retiring early."
Aringarosa smiled.
"A little faith can do wonders, Captain.
A little faith."
CHAPTER 104
Rosslyn Chapel—often called the Cathedral
of Codes—stands seven miles south of Edinburgh,
Scotland, on the site of an ancient Mithraic
temple.
Built by the Knights Templar in 1446, the
chapel is engraved with a mind-boggling array
of symbols from the Jewish, Christian, Egyptian,
Masonic, and pagan traditions.
The chapel's geographic coordinates fall precisely
on the north-south meridian that runs through
Glastonbury.
This longitudinal Rose Line is the traditional
marker of King Arthur's Isle of Avalon and
is considered the central pillar of Britain's
sacred geometry.
It is from this hallowed Rose Line that Rosslyn—originally
spelled Roslin—takes its name.
Rosslyn's rugged spires were casting long
evening shadows as Robert Langdon and Sophie
Neveu pulled their rental car into the grassy
parking area at the foot of the bluff on which
the chapel stood.
Their short flight from London to Edinburgh
had been restful, although neither of them
had slept for the anticipation of what lay
ahead.
Gazing up at the stark edifice framed against
a cloud-swept sky, Langdon felt like Alice
falling headlong into the rabbit hole.
This must be a dream.
And yet he knew the text of Saunière's final
message could not have been more specific.
The Holy Grail 'neath ancient Roslin waits.
Langdon had fantasized that Saunière's "Grail
map" would be a diagram—a drawing with an
X-marks-the-spot—and yet the Priory's final
secret had been unveiled in the same way Saunière
had spoken to them from the beginning.
Simple verse.
Four explicit lines that pointed without a
doubt to this very spot.
In addition to identifying Rosslyn by name,
the verse made reference to several of the
chapel's renowned architectural features.
Despite the clarity of Saunière's final revelation,
Langdon had been left feeling more off balance
than enlightened.
To him, Rosslyn Chapel seemed far too obvious
a location.
For centuries, this stone chapel had echoed
with whispers of the Holy Grail's presence.
The whispers had turned to shouts in recent
decades when ground-penetrating radar revealed
the presence of an astonishing structure beneath
the chapel—a massive subterranean chamber.
Not only did this deep vault dwarf the chapel
atop it, but it appeared to have no entrance
or exit.
Archaeologists petitioned to begin
blasting through the bedrock to reach the
mysterious chamber, but the Rosslyn Trust
expressly forbade any excavation of the sacred
site.
Of course, this only fueled the fires of speculation.
What was the Rosslyn Trust trying to hide?
Rosslyn had now become a pilgrimage site for
mystery seekers.
Some claimed they were drawn here by the powerful
magnetic field that emanated inexplicably
from these coordinates, some claimed they
came to search the hillside for a hidden entrance
to the vault, but most admitted they had come
simply to wander the grounds and absorb the
lore of the Holy Grail.
Although Langdon had never been to Rosslyn
before now, he always chuckled when he heard
the chapel described as the current home of
the Holy Grail.
Admittedly, Rosslyn once might have been home
to the Grail, long ago... but certainly no
longer.
Far too much attention had been drawn to Rosslyn
in past decades, and sooner or later someone
would find a way to break into the vault.
True Grail academics agreed that Rosslyn was
a decoy—one of the devious dead ends the
Priory crafted so convincingly.
Tonight, however, with the Priory's keystone
offering a verse that pointed directly to
this spot, Langdon no longer felt so smug.
A perplexing question had been running through
his mind all day:
Why would Saunière go to such effort to guide
us to so obvious a location?
There seemed only one logical answer.
There is something about Rosslyn we have yet
to understand.
"Robert?"
Sophie was standing outside the car, looking
back at him.
"Are you corning?"
She was holding the rosewood box, which Captain
Fache had returned to them.
Inside, both cryptexes had been reassembled
and nested as they had been found.
The papyrus verse was locked safely at its
core—minus the shattered vial of vinegar.
Making their way up the long gravel path,
Langdon and Sophie passed the famous west
wall of the chapel.
Casual visitors assumed this oddly protruding
wall was a section of the chapel that had
not been finished.
The truth, Langdon recalled, was far more
intriguing.
The west wall of Solomon's Temple.
The Knights Templar had designed Rosslyn Chapel
as an exact architectural blueprint of Solomon's
Temple in Jerusalem—complete with a west
wall, a narrow rectangular sanctuary, and
a subterranean vault like the Holy of Holies,
in which the original nine knights had first
unearthed their priceless treasure.
Langdon had to admit, there existed an intriguing
symmetry in the idea of the Templars building
a modern Grail repository that echoed the
Grail's original hiding place.
Rosslyn Chapel's entrance was more modest
than Langdon expected.
The small wooden door had
two iron hinges and a simple, oak sign.
ROSLIN
This ancient spelling, Langdon explained to
Sophie, derived from the Rose Line meridian
on which the chapel sat; or, as Grail academics
preferred to believe, from the "Line of Rose"—the
ancestral lineage of Mary Magdalene.
The chapel would be closing soon, and as Langdon
pulled open the door, a warm puff of air escaped,
as if the ancient edifice were heaving a weary
sigh at the end of a long day.
Her entry arches burgeoned with carved cinquefoils.
Roses.
The womb of the goddess.
Entering with Sophie, Langdon felt his eyes
reaching across the famous sanctuary and taking
it all in.
Although he had read accounts of Rosslyn's
arrestingly intricate stonework, seeing it
in person was an overwhelming encounter.
Symbology heaven, one of Langdon's colleagues
had called it.
Every surface in the chapel had been carved
with symbols—Christian cruciforms, Jewish
stars, Masonic seals, Templar crosses, cornucopias,
pyramids, astrological signs, plants, vegetables,
pentacles, and roses.
The Knights Templar had been master stonemasons,
erecting Templar churches all over Europe,
but Rosslyn was considered their most sublime
labor of love and veneration.
The master masons had left no stone uncarved.
Rosslyn Chapel was a shrine to all faiths...
to all traditions... and, above all, to nature
and the goddess.
The sanctuary was empty except for a handful
of visitors listening to a young man giving
the day's last tour.
He was leading them in a single-file line
along a well-known route on the floor—an
invisible pathway linking six key architectural
points within the sanctuary.
Generations of visitors had walked these straight
lines, connecting the points, and their countless
footsteps had engraved an enormous symbol
on the floor.
The Star of David, Langdon thought.
No coincidence there.
Also known as Solomon's Seal, this hexagram
had once been the secret symbol of the stargazing
priests and was later adopted by the Israelite
kings—David and Solomon.
The docent had seen Langdon and Sophie enter,
and although it was closing time, offered
a pleasant smile and motioned for them to
feel free to look around.
Langdon nodded his thanks and began to move
deeper into the sanctuary.
Sophie, however, stood riveted in the entryway,
a puzzled look on her face.
"What is it?"
Langdon asked.
Sophie stared out at the chapel.
"I think...
I've been here."
Langdon was surprised.
"But you said you hadn't even heard of Rosslyn."
"I hadn't..."
She scanned the sanctuary, looking uncertain.
"My grandfather must have brought me here
when I was very young.
I don't know.
It feels familiar."
As her eyes scanned the room, she began nodding
with more certainty.
"Yes."
She pointed to the front of the sanctuary.
"Those two pillars...
I've seen them."
Langdon looked at the pair of intricately
sculpted columns at the far end of the sanctuary.
Their white lacework carvings seemed to smolder
with a ruddy glow as the last of the day's
sunlight streamed in through the west window.
The pillars—positioned where the altar would
normally stand—were an oddly matched pair.
The pillar on the left was carved with simple,
vertical lines, while the pillar on the right
was embellished with an ornate, flowering
spiral.
Sophie was already moving toward them.
Langdon hurried after her, and as they reached
the pillars, Sophie was nodding with incredulity.
"Yes, I'm positive I have seen these!"
"I don't doubt you've seen them," Langdon
said, "but it wasn't necessarily here."
She turned.
"What do you mean?"
"These two pillars are the most duplicated
architectural structures in history.
Replicas exist all over the world."
"Replicas of Rosslyn?"
She looked skeptical.
"No.
Of the pillars.
Do you remember earlier that I mentioned Rosslyn
itself is a copy of Solomon's Temple?
Those two pillars are exact replicas of the
two pillars that stood at the head of Solomon's
Temple."
Langdon pointed to the pillar on the left.
"That's called Boaz—or the Mason's Pillar.
The other is called Jachin—or the Apprentice
Pillar."
He paused.
"In fact, virtually every Masonic temple in
the world has two pillars like these."
Langdon had already explained to her about
the Templars' powerful historic ties to the
modern Masonic secret societies, whose primary
degrees—Apprentice Freemason, Fellowcraft
Freemason, and Master Mason—harked back
to early Templar days.
Sophie's grandfather's final verse made direct
reference to the Master Masons who adorned
Rosslyn with their carved artistic offerings.
It also noted Rosslyn's central ceiling, which
was covered with carvings of stars and planets.
"I've never been in a Masonic temple," Sophie
said, still eyeing the pillars.
"I am almost positive I saw these here."
She turned back into the chapel, as if looking
for something else to jog her memory.
The rest of the visitors were now leaving,
and the young docent made his way across the
chapel to them with a pleasant smile.
He was a handsome young man in his late twenties,
with a Scottish brogue and strawberry blond
hair.
"I'm about to close up for the day.
May I help you find anything?"
How about the Holy Grail?
Langdon wanted to say.
"The code," Sophie blurted, in sudden revelation.
"There's a code here!"
The docent looked pleased by her enthusiasm.
"Yes there is, ma'am."
"It's on the ceiling," she said, turning to
the right-hand wall.
"Somewhere over... there."
He smiled.
"Not your first visit to Rosslyn, I see."
The code, Langdon thought.
He had forgotten that little bit of lore.
Among Rosslyn's numerous mysteries was a vaulted
archway from which hundreds of stone blocks
protruded, jutting down to form a bizarre
multifaceted surface.
Each block was carved with a symbol, seemingly
at random, creating a cipher of unfathomable
proportion.
Some people believed the code revealed the
entrance to the vault beneath the chapel.
Others believed it told the true Grail legend.
Not that it mattered—cryptographers had
been trying for centuries to decipher its
meaning.
To this day the Rosslyn Trust offered a generous
reward to anyone who could unveil the secret
meaning, but the code remained a mystery.
"I'd be happy to show..."
The docent's voice trailed off.
My first code, Sophie thought, moving alone,
in a trance, toward the encoded archway.
Having handed the rosewood box to Langdon,
she could feel herself momentarily forgetting
all about the Holy Grail, the Priory of Sion,
and all the mysteries of the past day.
When she arrived beneath the encoded ceiling
and saw the symbols above her, the memories
came flooding back.
She was recalling her first visit here, and
strangely, the memories conjured an unexpected
sadness.
She was a little girl... a year or so after
her family's death.
Her grandfather had brought her to Scotland
on a short vacation.
They had come to see Rosslyn Chapel before
going back to Paris.
It
was late evening, and the chapel was closed.
But they were still inside.
"Can we go home, Grand-père?"
Sophie begged, feeling tired.
"Soon, dear, very soon."
His voice was melancholy.
"I have one last thing I need to do here.
How about if you wait in the car?"
"You're doing another big person thing?"
He nodded.
"I'll be fast.
I promise."
"Can I do the archway code again?
That was fun."
"I don't know.
I have to step outside.
You won't be frightened in here alone?"
"Of course not!" she said with a huff.
"It's not even dark yet!"
He smiled.
"Very well then."
He led her over to the elaborate archway he
had shown her earlier.
Sophie immediately plopped down on the stone
floor, lying on her back and staring up at
the collage of puzzle pieces overhead.
"I'm going to break this code before you get
back!"
"It's a race then."
He bent over, kissed her forehead, and walked
to the nearby side door.
"I'll be right outside.
I'll leave the door open.
If you need me, just call."
He exited into the soft evening light.
Sophie lay there on the floor, gazing up at
the code.
Her eyes felt sleepy.
After a few minutes, the symbols got fuzzy.
And then they disappeared.
When Sophie awoke, the floor felt cold.
"Grand-père?"
There was no answer.
Standing up, she brushed herself off.
The side door was still open.
The evening was getting darker.
She walked outside and could see her grandfather
standing on the porch of a nearby stone house
directly behind the church.
Her grandfather was talking quietly to a person
barely visible inside the screened door.
"Grand-père?" she called.
Her grandfather turned and waved, motioning
for her to wait just a moment.
Then, slowly, he said some final words to
the person inside and blew a kiss toward the
screened door.
He came to her with tearful eyes.
"Why are you crying, Grand-père?"
He picked her up and held her close.
"Oh, Sophie, you and I have said good-bye
to a lot of people this year.
It's hard."
Sophie thought of the accident, of saying
good-bye to her mother and father, her grandmother
and baby brother.
"Were you saying goodbye to another person?"
"To a dear friend whom I love very much,"
he replied, his voice heavy with emotion.
"And I fear I will not see her again for a
very long time."
Standing with the docent, Langdon had been
scanning the chapel walls and feeling a rising
wariness that a dead end might be looming.
Sophie had wandered off to look at the code
and left Langdon holding the rosewood box,
which contained a Grail map that now appeared
to be no help at all.
Although Saunière's poem clearly indicated
Rosslyn, Langdon was not sure what to do now
that they had arrived.
The poem made reference to a "blade and chalice,"
which Langdon saw nowhere.
The Holy Grail 'neath ancient Roslin waits.
The blade and chalice guarding o'er Her gates.
Again Langdon sensed there remained some facet
of this mystery yet to reveal itself.
"I hate to pry," the docent said, eyeing the
rosewood box in Langdon's hands.
"But this box... might I ask where you got
it?"
Langdon gave a weary laugh.
"That's an exceptionally long story."
The young man hesitated, his eyes on the box
again.
"It's the strangest thing—my grandmother
has a box exactly like that—a jewelry box.
Identical polished rosewood, same inlaid rose,
even the hinges look the same."
Langdon knew the young man must be mistaken.
If ever a box had been one of a kind, it was
this one—the box custom-made for the Priory
keystone.
"The two boxes may be similar but—"
The side door closed loudly, drawing both
of their gazes.
Sophie had exited without a word and was now
wandering down the bluff toward a fieldstone
house nearby.
Langdon stared after her.
Where is she going?
She had been acting strangely ever since they
entered the building.
He turned to the docent.
"Do you know what that house is?"
He nodded, also looking puzzled that Sophie
was going down there.
"That's the chapel rectory.
The chapel curator lives there.
She also happens to be the head of the Rosslyn
Trust."
He paused.
"And my grandmother."
"Your grandmother heads the Rosslyn Trust?"
The young man nodded.
"I live with her in the rectory and help keep
up the chapel and give tours."
He shrugged.
"I've lived here my whole life.
My grandmother raised me in that house."
Concerned for Sophie, Langdon moved across
the chapel toward the door to call out to
her.
He was only halfway there when he stopped
short.
Something the young man said just registered.
My grandmother raised me.
Langdon looked out at Sophie on the bluff,
then down at the rosewood box in his hand.
Impossible.
Slowly, Langdon turned back to the young man.
"You said your grandmother has a box like
this one?"
"Almost identical."
"Where did she get it?"
"My grandfather made it for her.
He died when I was a baby, but my grandmother
still talks about him.
She says he was a genius with his hands.
He made all kinds of things."
Langdon glimpsed an unimaginable web of connections
emerging.
"You said your grandmother raised you.
Do you mind my asking what happened to your
parents?"
The young man looked surprised.
"They died when I was young."
He paused.
"The same day as my grandfather."
Langdon's heart pounded.
"In a car accident?"
The docent recoiled, a look of bewilderment
in his olive-green eyes.
"Yes.
In a car accident.
My entire family died that day.
I lost my grandfather, my parents, and..."
He hesitated, glancing down at the floor.
"And your sister," Langdon said.
Out on the bluff, the fieldstone house was
exactly as Sophie remembered it.
Night was falling now, and the house exuded
a warm and inviting aura.
The smell of bread wafted through the opened
screened door, and a golden light shone in
the windows.
As Sophie approached, she could hear the quiet
sounds of sobbing from within.
Through the screened door, Sophie saw an elderly
woman in the hallway.
Her back was to the door, but Sophie could
see she was crying.
The woman had long, luxuriant, silver hair
that conjured an unexpected wisp of memory.
Feeling herself drawn closer, Sophie stepped
onto the porch stairs.
The woman was clutching a framed photograph
of a man and touching her fingertips to his
face with loving sadness.
It was a face Sophie knew well.
Grand-père.
The woman had obviously heard the sad news
of his death last night.
A board squeaked beneath Sophie's feet, and
the woman turned slowly, her sad eyes finding
Sophie's.
Sophie wanted to run, but she stood transfixed.
The woman's fervent gaze never wavered as
she set down the photo and approached the
screened door.
An eternity seemed to pass as the two women
stared at one another through the thin mesh.
Then, like the slowly gathering swell of an
ocean wave, the woman's visage transformed
from one of uncertainty... to disbelief...
to hope... and finally, to cresting joy.
Throwing open the door, she came out, reaching
with soft hands, cradling Sophie's thunderstruck
face.
"Oh, dear child... look at you!"
Although Sophie did not recognize her, she
knew who this woman was.
She tried to speak but found she could not
even breathe.
"Sophie," the woman sobbed, kissing her forehead.
Sophie's words were a choked whisper.
"But...
Grand-père said you were..."
"I know."
The woman placed her tender hands on Sophie's
shoulders and gazed at her with familiar eyes.
"Your grandfather and I were forced to say
so many things.
We did what we thought was right.
I'm so sorry.
It was for your own safety, princess."
Sophie heard her final word, and immediately
thought of her grandfather, who had called
her princess for so many years.
The sound of his voice seemed to echo now
in the ancient stones of Rosslyn, settling
through the earth and reverberating in the
unknown hollows below.
The woman threw her arms around Sophie, the
tears flowing faster.
"Your grandfather wanted so badly to tell
you everything.
But things were difficult between you two.
He tried so hard.
There's so much to explain.
So very much to explain."
She kissed Sophie's forehead once again, then
whispered in her ear.
"No more secrets, princess.
It's time you learn the truth about our family."
Sophie and her grandmother were seated on
the porch stairs in a tearful hug when the
young docent dashed across the lawn, his eyes
shining with hope and disbelief.
"Sophie?"
Through her tears, Sophie nodded, standing.
She did not know the young man's face, but
as they embraced, she could feel the power
of the blood coursing through his veins...
the blood she now understood they shared.
When Langdon walked across the lawn to join
them, Sophie could not imagine that only yesterday
she had felt so alone in the world.
And now, somehow, in this foreign place, in
the company of three people she barely knew,
she felt at last that she was home.
CHAPTER 105
Night had fallen over Rosslyn.
Robert Langdon stood alone on the porch of
the fieldstone house enjoying the sounds of
laughter and reunion drifting through the
screened door behind him.
The mug of potent Brazilian coffee in his
hand had granted him a hazy reprieve from
his mounting exhaustion, and yet he sensed
the reprieve would be fleeting.
The fatigue in his body went to the core.
"You slipped out quietly," a voice behind
him said.
He turned.
Sophie's grandmother emerged, her silver hair
shimmering in the night.
Her name, for the last twenty-eight years
at least, was Marie Chauvel.
Langdon gave a tired smile.
"I thought I'd give your family some time
together."
Through the window, he could see Sophie talking
with her brother.
Marie came over and stood beside him.
"Mr. Langdon, when I first heard of Jacques's
murder, I was terrified for Sophie's safety.
Seeing her standing in my doorway tonight
was the greatest relief of my life.
I cannot thank you enough."
Langdon had no idea how to respond.
Although he had offered to give Sophie and
her grandmother time to talk in private, Marie
had asked him to stay and listen.
My husband obviously trusted you, Mr. Langdon,
so I do as well.
And so Langdon had remained, standing beside
Sophie and listening in mute astonishment
while Marie told the story of Sophie's late
parents.
Incredibly, both had been from Merovingian
families—direct descendants of Mary Magdalene
and Jesus Christ.
Sophie's parents and ancestors, for protection,
had changed their family names of Plantard
and Saint-Clair.
Their children represented the most direct
surviving royal bloodline and therefore were
carefully guarded by the Priory.
When Sophie's parents were killed in a car
accident whose cause could not be determined,
the Priory feared the identity of the royal
line had been discovered.
"Your grandfather and I," Marie had explained
in a voice choked with pain, "had to make
a grave decision the instant we received the
phone call.
Your parents' car had just been found in the
river."
She dabbed at the tears in her eyes.
"All six of us—including you two grandchildren—were
supposed to be traveling together in that
car that very night.
Fortunately we changed our plans at the last
moment, and your parents were alone.
Hearing of the accident, Jacques and I had
no way to know what had really happened...
or if this was truly an accident."
Marie looked at Sophie.
"We knew we had to protect our grandchildren,
and we did what we thought was best.
Jacques reported to the police that your brother
and I had been in the car...
our two bodies apparently washed off in the
current.
Then your brother and I went underground with
the Priory.
Jacques, being a man of prominence, did not
have the luxury of disappearing.
It only made sense that Sophie, being the
eldest, would stay in Paris to be taught and
raised by Jacques, close to the heart and
protection of the Priory."
Her voice fell to a whisper.
"Separating the family was the hardest thing
we ever had to do.
Jacques and I saw each other only very infrequently,
and always in the most secret of settings...
under the protection of the Priory.
There are certain ceremonies to which the
brotherhood always stays faithful."
Langdon had sensed the story went far deeper,
but he also sensed it was not for him to hear.
So he had stepped outside.
Now, gazing up at the spires of Rosslyn, Langdon
could not escape the hollow gnaw of Rosslyn's
unsolved mystery.
Is the Grail really here at Rosslyn?
And if so, where are the blade and chalice
that Saunière mentioned in his poem?
"I'll take that," Marie said, motioning to
Langdon's hand.
"Oh, thank you."
Langdon held out his empty coffee cup.
She stared at him.
"I was referring to your other hand, Mr. Langdon."
Langdon looked down and realized he was holding
Saunière's papyrus.
He had taken it from the cryptex once again
in hopes of seeing something he had missed
earlier.
"Of course, I'm sorry."
Marie looked amused as she took the paper.
"I know of a man at a bank in Paris who is
probably very eager to see the return of this
rosewood box.
André Vernet was a dear friend of Jacques,
and Jacques trusted him explicitly.
André would have done anything to honor Jacques's
requests for the care of this box."
Including shooting me, Langdon recalled, deciding
not to mention that he had probably broken
the poor man's nose.
Thinking of Paris, Langdon flashed on the
three sénéchaux who had been killed the
night before.
"And the Priory?
What happens now?"
"The wheels are already in motion, Mr. Langdon.
The brotherhood has endured for centuries,
and it will endure this.
There are always those waiting to move up
and rebuild."
All evening Langdon had suspected that Sophie's
grandmother was closely tied to the operations
of the Priory.
After all, the Priory had always had women
members.
Four Grand Masters had been women.
The sénéchaux were traditionally men—the
guardians—and yet women held far more honored
status within the Priory and could ascend
to the highest post from virtually any rank.
Langdon thought of Leigh Teabing and Westminster
Abbey.
It seemed a lifetime ago.
"Was the Church pressuring your husband not
to release the Sangreal documents at the End
of Days?"
"Heavens no.
The End of Days is a legend of paranoid minds.
There is nothing in the Priory doctrine that
identifies a date at which the Grail should
be unveiled.
In fact the Priory has always maintained that
the Grail should never be unveiled."
"Never?"
Langdon was stunned.
"It is the mystery and wonderment that serve
our souls, not the Grail itself.
The beauty of the Grail lies in her ethereal
nature."
Marie Chauvel gazed up at Rosslyn now.
"For some, the Grail is a chalice that will
bring them everlasting life.
For others, it is the quest for lost documents
and secret history.
And for most, I suspect the Holy Grail is
simply a grand idea... a glorious unattainable
treasure that somehow, even in today's world
of chaos, inspires us."
"But if the Sangreal documents remain hidden,
the story of Mary Magdalene will be lost forever,"
Langdon said.
"Will it?
Look around you.
Her story is being told in art, music, and
books.
More so every day.
The pendulum is swinging.
We are starting to sense the dangers of our
history... and of our destructive paths.
We are beginning to sense the need to restore
the sacred feminine."
She paused.
"You mentioned you are writing a manuscript
about the symbols of the sacred feminine,
are you not?"
"I am."
She smiled.
"Finish it, Mr. Langdon.
Sing her song.
The world needs modern troubadours."
Langdon fell silent, feeling the weight of
her message upon him.
Across the open spaces, a new moon was rising
above the tree line.
Turning his eyes toward Rosslyn, Langdon felt
a boyish craving to know her secrets.
Don't ask, he told himself.
This is not the moment.
He glanced at the papyrus in Marie's hand,
and then back at Rosslyn.
"Ask the question, Mr. Langdon," Marie said,
looking amused.
"You have earned the right."
Langdon felt himself flush.
"You want to know if the Grail is here at
Rosslyn."
"Can you tell me?"
She sighed in mock exasperation.
"Why is it that men simply cannot let the
Grail rest?"
She laughed, obviously enjoying herself.
"Why do you think it's here?"
Langdon motioned to the papyrus in her hand.
"Your husband's poem speaks specifically of
Rosslyn, except it also mentions a blade and
chalice watching over the Grail.
I didn't see any symbols of the blade and
chalice up there."
"The blade and chalice?"
Marie asked.
"What exactly do they look like?"
Langdon sensed she was toying with him, but
he played along, quickly describing the symbols.
A look of vague recollection crossed her face.
"Ah, yes, of course.
The blade represents all that is masculine.
I believe it is drawn like this, no?"
Using her index finger, she traced a shape
on her palm.
"Yes," Langdon said.
Marie had drawn the less common "closed" form
of the blade, although Langdon had seen the
symbol portrayed both ways.
"And the inverse," she said, drawing again
on her palm, "is the chalice, which represents
the feminine."
"Correct," Langdon said.
"And you are saying that in all the hundreds
of symbols we have here in Rosslyn Chapel,
these two
shapes appear nowhere?"
"I didn't see them."
"And if I show them to you, will you get some
sleep?"
Before Langdon could answer, Marie Chauvel
had stepped off the porch and was heading
toward the chapel.
Langdon hurried after her.
Entering the ancient building, Marie turned
on the lights and pointed to the center of
the sanctuary floor.
"There you are, Mr. Langdon.
The blade and chalice."
Langdon stared at the scuffed stone floor.
It was blank.
"There's nothing here...."
Marie sighed and began to walk along the famous
path worn into the chapel floor, the same
path Langdon had seen the visitors walking
earlier this evening.
As his eyes adjusted to see the giant symbol,
he still felt lost.
"But that's the Star of Dav—"
Langdon stopped short, mute with amazement
as it dawned on him.
The blade and chalice.
Fused as one.
The Star of David... the perfect union of
male and female...
Solomon's Seal... marking the Holy of
Holies, where the male and female deities—Yahweh
and Shekinah—were thought to dwell.
Langdon needed a minute to find his words.
"The verse does point here to Rosslyn.
Completely.
Perfectly."
Marie smiled.
"Apparently."
The implications chilled him.
"So the Holy Grail is in the vault beneath
us?"
She laughed.
"Only in spirit.
One of the Priory's most ancient charges was
one day to return the Grail to her homeland
of France where she could rest for eternity.
For centuries, she was dragged across the
countryside to keep her safe.
Most undignified.
Jacques's charge when he became Grand Master
was to restore her honor by returning her
to France and building her a resting place
fit for a queen."
"And he succeeded?"
Now her face grew serious.
"Mr. Langdon, considering what you've done
for me tonight, and as curator of the Rosslyn
Trust, I can tell you for certain that the
Grail is no longer here."
Langdon decided to press.
"But the keystone is supposed to point to
the place where the Holy Grail is hidden now.
Why does it point to Rosslyn?"
"Maybe you're misreading its meaning.
Remember, the Grail can be deceptive.
As could my late husband."
"But how much clearer could he be?" he asked.
"We are standing over an underground vault
marked by the blade and chalice, underneath
a ceiling of stars, surrounded by the art
of Master Masons.
Everything speaks of Rosslyn."
"Very well, let me see this mysterious verse."
She unrolled the papyrus and read the poem
aloud in a deliberate tone.
The Holy Grail 'neath ancient Roslin waits.
The blade and chalice guarding o'er Her gates.
Adorned in masters' loving art, She lies.
She rests at last beneath the starry skies.
When she finished, she was still for several
seconds, until a knowing smile crossed her
lips.
"Aah, Jacques."
Langdon watched her expectantly.
"You understand this?"
"As you have witnessed on the chapel floor,
Mr. Langdon, there are many ways to see simple
things."
Langdon strained to understand.
Everything about Jacques Saunière seemed
to have double meanings, and yet Langdon could
see no further.
Marie gave a tired yawn.
"Mr. Langdon, I will make a confession to
you.
I have never officially been privy to the
present location of the Grail.
But, of course, I was married to a person
of enormous influence... and my women's intuition
is strong."
Langdon started to speak but Marie continued.
"I am sorry that after all your hard work,
you will be leaving Rosslyn without any real
answers.
And yet, something tells me you will eventually
find what you seek.
One day it will dawn on you."
She smiled.
"And when it does, I trust that you, of all
people, can keep a secret."
There was a sound of someone arriving in the
doorway.
"Both of you disappeared," Sophie said, entering.
"I was just leaving," her grandmother replied,
walking over to Sophie at the door.
"Good night, princess."
She kissed Sophie's forehead.
"Don't keep Mr. Langdon out too late."
Langdon and Sophie watched her grandmother
walk back toward the fieldstone house.
When Sophie turned to him, her eyes were awash
in deep emotion.
"Not exactly the ending I expected."
That makes two of us, he thought.
Langdon could see she was overwhelmed.
The news she had received tonight had changed
everything in her life.
"Are you okay?
It's a lot to take in."
She smiled quietly.
"I have a family.
That's where I'm going to start.
Who we are and where we came from will take
some time."
Langdon remained silent.
"Beyond tonight, will you stay with us?"
Sophie asked.
"At least for a few days?"
Langdon sighed, wanting nothing more.
"You need some time here with your family,
Sophie.
I'm going back to Paris in the morning."
She looked disappointed but seemed to know
it was the right thing to do.
Neither of them spoke for a long time.
Finally Sophie reached over and, taking his
hand, led him out of the chapel.
They walked to a small rise on the bluff.
From here, the Scottish countryside spread
out before them, suffused in a pale moonlight
that sifted through the departing clouds.
They stood in silence, holding hands, both
of them fighting the descending shroud of
exhaustion.
The stars were just now appearing, but to
the east, a single point of light glowed brighter
than any other.
Langdon smiled when he saw it.
It was Venus.
The ancient Goddess shining down with her
steady and patient light.
The night was growing cooler, a crisp breeze
rolling up from the lowlands.
After a while, Langdon looked over at Sophie.
Her eyes were closed, her lips relaxed in
a contented smile.
Langdon could feel his own eyes growing heavy.
Reluctantly, he squeezed her hand.
"Sophie?"
Slowly, she opened her eyes and turned to
him.
Her face was beautiful in the moonlight.
She gave him a sleepy smile.
"Hi."
Langdon felt an unexpected sadness to realize
he would be returning to Paris without her.
"I may be gone before you wake up."
He paused, a knot growing in his throat.
"I'm sorry, I'm not very good at—"
Sophie reached out and placed her soft hand
on the side of his face.
Then, leaning forward, she kissed him tenderly
on the cheek.
"When can I see you again?"
Langdon reeled momentarily, lost in her eyes.
"When?"
He paused, curious if she had any idea how
much he had been wondering the same thing.
"Well, actually, next month I'm lecturing
at a conference in Florence.
I'll be there a week without much to do."
"Is that an invitation?"
"We'd be living in luxury.
They're giving me a room at the Brunelleschi."
Sophie smiled playfully.
"You presume a lot, Mr. Langdon."
He cringed at how it had sounded.
"What I meant—"
"I would love nothing more than to meet you
in Florence, Robert.
But on one condition."
Her tone turned serious.
"No museums, no churches, no tombs, no art,
no relics."
"In Florence?
For a week?
There's nothing else to do."
Sophie leaned forward and kissed him again,
now on the lips.
Their bodies came together, softly at first,
and then completely.
When she pulled away, her eyes were full of
promise.
"Right," Langdon managed.
"It's a date."
