Labyrinth

CHAPTER 54

Alice arrived in Chartres late in the afternoon. She found a hotel, then bought a map and went straight to the address she’d been given by directory enquiries. Alice looked up in surprise at the elegant town house, with its gleaming brass knocker and letter box and elegant plants in the window boxes, and the tubs framing the steps. Alice couldn’t imagine Shelagh staying here.

2›What the hell are you going to say if someone answers? 2›

Alice took a deep breath, then walked up the steps and rang the bell. There was no answer. She waited, took a pace back and looked up at the windows, then tried again. She dialled the number. Seconds later, she could hear a phone ringing inside.

At least it was the right place.

It was an anticlimax but, if she was honest, a relief also. The confrontation, if that’s what was coming, could wait.

The square in front of the cathedral was thronging with tourists, all clutching cameras, and tour guides holding flags or colourful umbrellas held high. Orderly Germans, self-conscious English, glamorous Italians, quiet Japanese, enthusiastic Americans. All the children looked bored.

At some point during the long drive north, she’d stopped thinking she would learn anything from the labyrinth in Chartres. It seemed so obviously connected – the cave at the Pic de Soularac, to Grace, to her personally – too obvious. Part of her felt like she’d been set up to follow a false trail.

Still, Alice bought a ticket and joined an English-language tour, scheduled to start outside in five minutes. Their guide was an efficient, middle-aged woman with a superior manner and clipped voice.

“To the modern eye, cathedrals are grey, soaring structures of devotion and faith. However, in medieval times, they were very colourful, ratherthan like Hindu shrines in India or Thailand. The statues and tympana that adorned the great portals, in Chartres as elsewhere, were tricked out in polychrome.” The guide pointed up at the outside with her umbrella. “Look closely and you can still see fragments of pink, blue and yellow clinging to the cracks in the statues.”

All around Alice, people were nodding obediently.

“In 1194,” the woman continued, “a fire destroyed most of the city of Chartres as well as the cathedral itself. At first it was believed that the cathedral’s holiest relic, the sancta camisia – the robe supposedly worn by Mary at the birth of Christ – had been destroyed. But after three days the relic was discovered, having been hidden by the monks in the crypt. This was seen as a miracle, a sign that the cathedral should be rebuilt. The current edifice was finished in 1223 and in 1260 consecrated as the Cathedral Church of the Assumption of Our Lady, the first cathedral in France to be dedicated to the Virgin Mary.”

Alice listened with half an ear, until they arrived at the northern side of the cathedral. The guide pointed at the eerie stone procession of Old Testament kings and queens carved above the north portal.

Alice felt a flutter of nervous excitement.

“This is the only significant representation of the Old Testament in the cathedral,” said the guide, beckoning them closer. “On this pillar is a carving which many people believe shows the Ark of the Covenant being carried away from Jerusalem by Menelik, son of Solomon and the Queen of Sheba, despite the fact that historians claim the story of Menelik was not known in Europe until the fifteenth century. And here” – she lowered her arm a little – ‘is another mystery. Those of you with good eyesight might just be able to make out the Latin – HIC AMITITUR ARCHA CEDERIS.“ She looked round the group and smiled smugly. The Latin scholars among you will realise that the inscription does not make sense. Some guidebooks translate ARCHA CEDERIS as: ”You are to work through the Ark“ and translate the entire inscription as: ”Here things take their course: you are to work through the Ark.“ However, if you take CEDERIS to be a corruption of FOEDERIS, as some commentators have suggested, then the inscription might be translated as: ”Here it is let go, the Ark of the Covenant“.”

She looked around the group. “This door, among other things, is one of the reasons for the number of myths and legends that have grown up around the cathedral. Unusually, the names of the master builders of Chartres Cathedral are not known. It is likely that, for some reason, no records were kept and the names were simply forgotten. However, those with more, shall we say, lurid imaginations have interpreted the absence of information differently. The most persistent of the rumours has it that the cathedral was built by descendants of the Poor Knights of Solomon, the Knights Templar, as a codified book in stone, a gigantic puzzle decipherable only by the initiated. Many believed the bones of Mary Magdalene had once been buried beneath the labyrinth. Or even the Holy Grail itself”.“

“Has anybody looked?” Alice said, regretting the words the second they were out of her mouth. Disapproving eyes swivelled to her like a spotlight.

The guide raised her eyebrows. “Certainly. On more than one occasion. But most of you will not be surprised to hear they found nothing. Another myth.” She paused. “Shall we move inside?”

Feeling awkward, Alice followed the group to the West Door and joined the queue to enter the cathedral. Straight away, everybody dropped their voices as the distinctive smell of stone and incense worked their magic. In the side chapels and by the main entrance, flickering rows of devotional candles sparkled in the gloom.

She braced herself for some sort of reaction, visions of the past, as she’d experienced in Toulouse and Carcassonne. She felt nothing and after a while, she relaxed and began to enjoy herself. From her research, she knew Chartres Cathedral was said to have the finest collection of stained glass anywhere in the world, but she was unprepared for the dazzling brilliance of the windows. A kaleidoscope of shimmering colour flooded the cathedral, depicting scenes of everyday and biblical life. The Rose Window and the Blue Virgin Window, the Noah Window showing the Flood and the animals marching two by two into the ark. As she wandered around, Alice tried to imagine what it must have been like when the walls were covered with frescos and decked with richly woven tapestries, the Eastern fabrics and silken banners all embroidered with gold. To medieval eyes, the contrast between the splendours of God’s temple and the world outside the cloister must have been overwhelming. Proof positive, perhaps, of God’s glory on earth.

“And, finally,” the guide said, “we come to the famous eleven-circuit pavement labyrinth. Completed in 1200, it is the largest in Europe. The original centrepiece is long gone, but the rest is intact. For medieval Christians, the labyrinth provided an opportunity to undertake a spiritual.pilgrimage, in place of an actual journey to Jerusalem. Hence the fact that pavement labyrinths – as opposed to those found on the walls of churches land cathedrals – were often known as the chemin de Jerusalem, that is, the road or path to Jerusalem. Pilgrims would walk the circuit towards the centre, sometimes many times, symbolic of a growing understanding or closeness to God. Penitents often completed the journey on their knees, sometimes taking many days over it.”

Alice edged to the front, her heart racing, only now realising subconsciously she’d been putting this moment off.

This is the moment.

She took a deep breath. The symmetry was destroyed by the rows of chairs on either side of the nave facing the altar for evensong. Even so, and despite knowing its dimensions from her research, Alice was taken aback by the size of it. It entirely dominated the cathedral.

Slowly, like everyone else, Alice began to walk the labyrinth, round and round in ever decreasing circles, like a halting game of follow-my-leader, until she arrived at the centre.

She felt nothing. No shiver up her spine, no moment of enlightenment or transformation. Nothing. She crouched down and touched the ground. The stone was smooth and cool, but it did not speak to her.

Alice gave a wry smile. What were you expecting?

She didn’t even need to get her drawing of the cave labyrinth from her bag to know that there was nothing for her here. Without a fuss, Alice excused herself from the group, and slipped away.

After the fierce heat of the Midi, the gentle northern sun was a relief and Alice spent the next hour exploring the picturesque historic town centre.

She was half looking for the corner where Grace and Audric Baillard had posed for the camera.

It didn’t seem to exist or else was outside the area covered by the map. Most of the streets had taken their names from the trades practised there in previous times: clockmakers, tanners, equerries and stationers, testament to Chartres’ importance as the great centre of paper making and book binding in France in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. But no rue des Trois Degres.

Finally, Alice arrived back where she had started, in front of the West Door of the cathedral. She sat down on the wall leaning against the railings. Immediately, her gaze honed in on the corner of the street directly opposite. She jumped up and ran over to read the sign on the wall: RUE DE L’ETROIT DEGRE, DITE AUSSI RUE DES TROIS DEGRES (DES TROIS MARCHES).

The road had been renamed. Smiling to herself, Alice stepped back to get a better view and banged into a man buried in a newspaper.

“Pardon,‘ she said, moving sideways.

“No, excuse me,” he said, in a pleasant American accent. “It was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. Are you OK?”

“I’m fine.”

To her surprise, he was staring intently at her.

“Is there…”

“It’s Alice, right?”

Yes?“ she said cautiously.

“Alice, of course. Hi,” he said, pushing his fingers through his mop of shaggy brown hair. “How amazing!”

“I’m sorry, but I-”

William Franklin,“ he said, holding out his hand. Will. We met in London, nineteen-ninety four or five. Big group of us. You were dating a guy… what was he called… Oliver. Is that right? I’d gone over to visit with my cousin.”

Alice had a vague memory of an afternoon in an over-crowded flat filled with Oliver’s university friends. She thought she could just about remember an American boy, engaging, good looking, although she’d been head over heels in love at that stage, noticing no one else.

2›This boy? 2›

You have a good memory,“ she said, shaking his hand. ”It was a long time ago.“

You haven’t changed so much.“ he said, smiling. ”So, how is Oliver anyhow?“

Alice pulled a face. We’re not still together.“

That’s too bad,“ he said. There was a slight pause, then added: Who’s in the photo?”

Alice looked down. She’d forgotten she was still holding it.

“My aunt. I came across this in some of her things and, since I was here, I thought I’d see if I could track down where it was taken.” She grinned. “It’s been harder than you’d imagine.”

Will looked over her shoulder. “And the guy?”

“Just a friend. A writer.”

Another a pause, as if both wanted to keep the conversation going, but didn’t quite know what to say. Will looked back to the picture.

“She looks nice.”

“Nice?” She looks rather determined to me, although I don’t know that for a fact. I never met her.“

“Really? So how come you’re carrying her photo around?”

Alice put the photograph back in her bag. “It’s complicated.”

“I can do complicated,” he grinned. “Look…” he hesitated. “Do you want to get coffee or something? If you’ve not got someplace else you’ve got to be.”

Alice was surprised but, actually, she’d been thinking the same thing.

“Do you usually go picking up random women like this?”

“Not usually,” he said. “The question is do you usually accept?”

Alice felt as if she was looking down on the scene from above. Watching a man and a woman, who looked like her, walk into the old-fashioned patisserie with the cakes and pastries laid out in long glass cabinets.

I can’t believe I’m doing this.

Sights, smells, sounds. The waiters dipping in and out of the tables, the burned, bitter aroma of the coffee, the hiss of milk in the machine, the dink of forks on the plate, everything was especially vivid. Most of all Will himself, the way he smiled, the turn of his head, the way his fingers went to the silver chain at his neck when he was talking.

They sat at a table outside. The spire of the cathedral was just visible over the tops of the houses. A slight constraint descended on them when they sat down. They both started talking at once. Alice laughed, Will apologised.

Cautiously, tentatively, they started to fill in the stories of their lives since they’d last met six years ago.

“You looked really engrossed,” she said, turning his newspaper around so she could read the headline. You know, when you came hurtling round that corner and we collided.“

Will grinned. “Yeah, sorry about that,” he apologised. “The local paper’s not usually so exciting. A man’s been found dead in the river, right in the centre of the city. He’d been stabbed in the back, his hands and feet were tied, the local radio station’s going crazy. They seem to think it’s some kind of ritual killing. Now they’re linking it to the disappearance last week of a local journalist, who was writing an expose of secret religious societies.”

The smile fell from Alice’s face. “Can I see that?” she said, reaching for the paper.

“Sure. Help yourself.”

Her sense of uneasiness grew as she read the list of names. The Noublesso Veritable. There was something familiar about the name.

“Are you okay?” Alice looked up to see Will gazing at her.

“Sorry,” she said. “I was miles away. It’s just I’ve come across something similar recently. The coincidence gave me a shock.”

“Coincidence? Sounds intriguing.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’m in no hurry,” said Will, propping his elbows on the table and smiling encouragingly at her.

After being trapped inside her own thoughts for so long, Alice was tempted by the chance of finally talking to someone. And she sort of knew him. Only tell him what you want.

“Well, I’m not sure this is going to make much sense,” she began. “A couple of months ago I discovered, totally out of the blue, that an aunt I’d never heard of had died and left everything to me, including a house in France.”

“The lady in the photo.”

She nodded. “She’s called Grace Tanner. I was due to come to France anyway, to visit a friend who was working at an archaeological dig in the Pyrenees, so I decided to run the two trips together.” She hesitated. “Some things happened at the dig – I won’t bore you by going into detail except to say there seemed to be… Well, never mind.” She took a breath. “Yesterday, after a meeting with the solicitor, I went to my aunt’s house and I found some things… something, a pattern, which I’d seen at the dig.” She stumbled, inarticulate. “There was also a book by an author called Audric Baillard who, I’m almost a hundred per cent certain, is the man in the photo.”

“He’s still alive?”

“So far as I know. I haven’t been able to track him down.”

“What’s his relationship with your aunt?”

I’m not sure. I’m hoping he’ll be able to tell me. He’s my only link to her. And other things.“

To the labyrinth, the family tree, to my dream.

When she looked up, she saw Will was looking confused, but engaged.

“I can’t say I’m much the wiser yet,” he said with a grin.

I’m not explaining it very well,“ she admitted. ”Let’s talk about some less complicated. You never did tell me what you were doing in Chartres.“

“Like every other American in France, trying to write.”

Alice smiled. “Isn’t Paris more traditional?”

“I started off there, but I guess I found it too, well, impersonal, if you know what I mean. My parents knew folks here. I liked it. Ended up staying a while.”

Alice nodded, expecting him to carry on. Instead, he returned to something she’d said earlier. “This pattern you mentioned,” he said casually. “That you found at the dig and then at Grace’s house, what was special about it?”

She hesitated. “It’s a labyrinth.”

“Is that why you’re here in Chartres then? To go to the cathedral?”

“It’s not quite the same…” She stopped as caution returned. “Partly, although it’s more because I’m hoping to catch up with a friend. Shelagh. There’s a… a possibility she might be in Chartres.” Alice reached in her bag and passed the scrap of paper with the address scribbled on it across the table to Will. “I went there earlier, but there was no one there. So I decided to do my sightseeing, then go back in about an hour or so.”

Alice was shocked to see Will had turned white. He looked dumbstruck.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Why do you think your friend might be there?” he said in a tight voice.

“I don’t, for sure,” she said, still puzzled by the change that had come over him.

“This is the friend you went to visit at the dig?”

She nodded.

“And she saw this labyrinth pattern also? Like you?”

“I suppose so, although she didn’t mention it. She was more obsessed with something I’d found, which…” Alice broke off as Will abruptly stood up.

“What are you doing?” she said, unnerved by the expression on his face as he took her hand.

“Come with me. There’s something you ought to see.”

“Where are we going?” she asked again, hurrying to keep up with him.

Then they rounded the corner and Alice realised they were at the other end of rue du Cheval Blanc. Will strode towards the house, then ran up the steps to the front door.

“Are you out of your mind? What if someone’s come home?”

“There won’t be.”

“But how do you know?”

Alice watched with astonishment as Will produced a key from his pocket and opened the front door. “Hurry. Before someone sees us.”

“You have a key,” she said in disbelief. “Suppose you start telling me what the hell’s going on.”

Will ran back down the steps and grabbed her hand.

“There’s a version of your labyrinth here,” he hissed. “Okay? Now, will you come?”

2›What if it’s another trap? 2›

After everything that had happened, she’d be crazy to follow him. It was too much of a risk. Nobody even knew she was here. Curiosity won out over common sense. Alice looked up at Will’s face, eager and anxious at one and the same time.

She decided to give him another chance and trust him.