The Sixth Key(96)

The Writer of Letters looked at me quizzically a moment, perhaps trying to discern the tenor of my thoughts. With a smooth voice he said, ‘That watermark was used by Aldus Manutius, one of the great printers of Venice.

‘You must imagine it is 1515 and the famous Venetian printer is working amid the dust and heat of his printing shop when a visitor is announced. The visitor is a stranger but the moment the man shows him the tattoo on his wrist, Manutius knows the importance of the visit. Manutius likewise shows him his own tattoo, which depicts the same symbol, and the man is satisfied.



‘The visitor removes a book from a velvet pouch and hands it to him. Manutius holds it tentatively in his hands. He knows what it is, you see, because of the embossed gold letter H on the front cover.

‘Manutius opens it and begins reading the German words:


The Holy Apostolic Chair, unto which the keys of the Kingdom of Heaven were given by those words that Christ Jesus addressed to Saint Peter: I give unto thee the Keys of the Kingdom of Heaven, and unto thee alone the Power of commanding the Prince of Darkness and his angels, who, as slaves of their Master, do owe him honour, glory and obedience, by those other words of Christ Jesus: Thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and Him only shalt thou serve – hence by the Power of these Keys the Head of the Church has been made the Lord of Hell . . .


‘The first time Manutius had heard mention of this book had been from his pupil and friend, Pico della Mirandola, the young humanist who had worked for Lorenzo the Magnificent in Florence. He had whispered to him something of a terrible book, which had come into his hands and which he would one day translate into Italian; a book spoken of only in whispers. By chance, or maleficent providence, the book had somehow escaped the purifying flames of that infamous monk, Savoranola, who inspired the people of Florence to throw into the Bonfires of the Vanities many heretical books, jewellery, and even works of art. Now, Manutius cannot believe what he holds in his hands. He looks up to the man who has brought it. “Is this . . . Le Serpent Rouge?”

‘“Yes, the original penned by Pope Honorius himself, with an interpolation added at a later date.”

‘“Dear Lord . . . what shall I do with it?”

‘“Lock it up and guard it with your life. Do not read further than you have. You will soon hear from us again.”’

I looked at the Writer of Letters. ‘Let me see if I have it right. There are three copies of the Theban magician Honorius’s book, and one fell into the hands of a pope, who called himself Pope Honorius – is this the one that fell into the hands of Manutius, Le Serpent Rouge, the book Rahn is looking for?’

‘Indeed.’ His eyes gleamed.

‘But I’m confused – what about the treasure of the Cathars?’

‘There are two aspects to this mystery: Le Serpent Rouge and the treasure of the Cathars, in which Rahn suspects he will find the missing key that completes it. To know what happened when the key of the Cathars and Le Serpent Rouge came together at the same time and in the same space, we need to go to the gallery called Chavigny. There we shall find those happenings at the court of Francis, son of Catherine de Medici . . .’





35


Chavigny

‘In the world there will be made a king who

will have little peace and a short life.’

Nostradamus, Century I Quatrain 4


Blois Castle, France, 1556

The night was tempestuous. The moon was in Scorpio and it was a terrible omen, but Chavigny, drenched to the bone, did not know this and so he walked into the grand apartment panelled in oak unperturbed.

Neither the torches nor the light of a hundred candles flickering in their silver stands could pierce the darkness of this room. Nor could they cheer the mood, for screams and moans could be heard coming from a four-posted bed canopied in black silk.

A number of men stood around the bed, arguing. The air reeked of incense mingled with the smoke from a monstrous fire and the sickly smell of corrupted flesh. Chavigny had to stifle a cough. He looked to his master, whose face was silhouetted beneath his physician’s cap, and noted that his features betrayed no disgust or concern. This did not surprise Chavigny, for in the past ten years he had come to know the most foundational aspect of his master’s character – that he could be expected never to behave in a way one expected, even if one expected the unexpected.

‘The king dies?’ he asked into his master’s ear.

‘You realise this only now, and you want to be a physician?’ his master said, staring at a woman standing among various physicians and monks. She was dressed in black and her pale, round face was like the reflection of a moon cast upon the waters of a dark lake.