cracked, and it was far weightier. This one looked truly ancient, as if it had been hidden away for a thousand years. Unlike the decoy book, this one did not have a strap or a lock on it, and Maureen opened it very gently. There were hundreds of parchment pages bound within it, and an exacting Latin script filled them all. The first page was emblazoned with an illuminated emblem, one that Maureen had come to recognize recently. It was the Latin cross with the strange signature:
Matilda, by the Grace of God Who Is.
C HAPTER F OUR
Florenville, Belgium
present day
“ T hat whore Matilda eludes me again!”
The leader of the hooded men growled his outrage as he threw the decoy book across the hidden basement room in a fit of uncontrolled rage.
One of the brothers responded, venturing into troubled waters. “How can you be so certain that it is Matilda’s book that was to be delivered to the Paschal woman?”
The elder hissed. “You dare to question me? Is there a man among you who would challenge my knowledge or my authority on this matter?”
When silence met the question, the leader continued his tirade. “Because of the painstaking and tireless efforts of our brothers through history, we have successfully eradicated all known references to the Book of Love in writing. There is no evidence that it ever existed outside the fantasies of dead heretics. During the Inquisition, we confiscated every known document that alluded to it and destroyed them—the documents and the heretics. There is only one manuscript that has escaped our grasp in all of these centuries, and that is…Matilda’s.”
He spat her name, his voice dripping venom. All the women in history who claimed the title of prophetess infuriated him. But none more than the hated countess of Canossa, who had evaded attempts to silence her for almost a thousand years.
The young henchman who had attacked Maureen and Tammy stepped forward. “What would you like me to do, Your Holiness?”
His leader snarled the command. “Go to the source. Find Destino.”
Of all the male followers, only the blessed Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea were present on the hill of Golgotha on the Black Day of the Skull. It was they who extracted the nails and they who removed our Lord from the cross. In the presence of the women, they carried the body of their messiah on a stretcher made of linen. Their destination was a nearby tomb that had been commissioned for the family of Joseph of Arimathea. Joseph provided this resting place out of both reverence and kinship as Jesus was not only his teacher but also his nephew by blood.
Upon arrival in the sepulcher, Maria Magdalena began to wash the wounds of her beloved, praying fervently over his body all the while. She worked tirelessly to apply salves and ointments, instructing everyone else in the cramped tomb to pray along with her, to pray with all their might that their heavenly father would restore his son to them. And pray they did, but none as passionately as Maria Magdalena. Even with sweat and grime and blood smeared over her face, she had the dignity and presence of a queen. She was pale beneath it all, faint from exhaustion and grief, but she would not cease her ministrations, nor her prayers, except to check on the health and welfare of the others in the tomb. That she had the capacity to worry about all of them at such a time was most emblematic of her remarkable compassion.
Maria Magdalena worked through the night while the others slept, never losing faith that God would restore their messiah to them. But his body remained lifeless and there was no sign of hope within the sepulcher. When the first rays of sun filtered in on that Saturday morning, she wrapped the body of her beloved in the burial cloth. The symbolism of this act—the finality of it, the necessary surrender—overwhelmed her. She collapsed to the floor, still clutching the alabaster jar that held the healing ointments.
The men carried Madonna
Matilda, by the Grace of God Who Is.
C HAPTER F OUR
Florenville, Belgium
present day
“ T hat whore Matilda eludes me again!”
The leader of the hooded men growled his outrage as he threw the decoy book across the hidden basement room in a fit of uncontrolled rage.
One of the brothers responded, venturing into troubled waters. “How can you be so certain that it is Matilda’s book that was to be delivered to the Paschal woman?”
The elder hissed. “You dare to question me? Is there a man among you who would challenge my knowledge or my authority on this matter?”
When silence met the question, the leader continued his tirade. “Because of the painstaking and tireless efforts of our brothers through history, we have successfully eradicated all known references to the Book of Love in writing. There is no evidence that it ever existed outside the fantasies of dead heretics. During the Inquisition, we confiscated every known document that alluded to it and destroyed them—the documents and the heretics. There is only one manuscript that has escaped our grasp in all of these centuries, and that is…Matilda’s.”
He spat her name, his voice dripping venom. All the women in history who claimed the title of prophetess infuriated him. But none more than the hated countess of Canossa, who had evaded attempts to silence her for almost a thousand years.
The young henchman who had attacked Maureen and Tammy stepped forward. “What would you like me to do, Your Holiness?”
His leader snarled the command. “Go to the source. Find Destino.”
Of all the male followers, only the blessed Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea were present on the hill of Golgotha on the Black Day of the Skull. It was they who extracted the nails and they who removed our Lord from the cross. In the presence of the women, they carried the body of their messiah on a stretcher made of linen. Their destination was a nearby tomb that had been commissioned for the family of Joseph of Arimathea. Joseph provided this resting place out of both reverence and kinship as Jesus was not only his teacher but also his nephew by blood.
Upon arrival in the sepulcher, Maria Magdalena began to wash the wounds of her beloved, praying fervently over his body all the while. She worked tirelessly to apply salves and ointments, instructing everyone else in the cramped tomb to pray along with her, to pray with all their might that their heavenly father would restore his son to them. And pray they did, but none as passionately as Maria Magdalena. Even with sweat and grime and blood smeared over her face, she had the dignity and presence of a queen. She was pale beneath it all, faint from exhaustion and grief, but she would not cease her ministrations, nor her prayers, except to check on the health and welfare of the others in the tomb. That she had the capacity to worry about all of them at such a time was most emblematic of her remarkable compassion.
Maria Magdalena worked through the night while the others slept, never losing faith that God would restore their messiah to them. But his body remained lifeless and there was no sign of hope within the sepulcher. When the first rays of sun filtered in on that Saturday morning, she wrapped the body of her beloved in the burial cloth. The symbolism of this act—the finality of it, the necessary surrender—overwhelmed her. She collapsed to the floor, still clutching the alabaster jar that held the healing ointments.
The men carried Madonna
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