They arrived before lunch at the abbey and sat with Dom Menaud in the study of his abbot house, a dusty book-filled room more resembling a professor’s apartment than a cleric’s. Hugo performed the introductions and offered a quick apology for their casual clothes. The creature of fashion he was, he was chagrined to be taking a meeting dressed for a hike.
Hugo had corresponded with the abbot about the status of the restorations and a timetable had been set for the return of all the volumes. But now, Dom Menaud was particularly anxious to see the Barthomieu manuscript for himself and when Hugo produced it from his bag he grabbed at it like a greedy child offered a chocolate bar.
The abbot spent a full five minutes in silence, pawing through the pages, studying the text through his bifocals before shaking his head in wonder. ‘This really is quite remarkable. Saint Bernard, of all people! And why did this Barthomieu feel it necessary to hide behind a cipher? And these fantastic illustrations! I’m delighted and puzzled and at the same time, I admit, somewhat apprehensive about what it all means.’
‘We don’t disagree,’ Hugo said with a counterbalancing lack of emotion, always the professional before his clients. ‘That’s why we’re here. We’re keen to find explanations and Professor Simard has graciously volunteered to help.’
The abbot turned to Luc, his hands resting protectively on the manuscript. ‘I appreciate, that, professor. One of the Brothers did an Internet search for me. You have an illustrious background for such a young man. A baccalaureate in Paris from my alma mater, a doctorate from Harvard, a faculty appointment there and most recently, a prestigious professorship at Bordeaux. Congratulations on your accomplishments.’
Luc bowed his head in appreciation.
‘Why Harvard, if you don’t mind my curiosity?’
‘My mother was American, my father French. When I was young I attended boarding school while my parents lived in the Middle East, though we came back to France for summers. When they divorced, it was natural to split the baby, where I’m the baby, you see. I went to an American high school to be with my mother then Paris for my university studies to be near my father then to Harvard to be near my mother again. Complicated, but it worked out.’
‘But most of your research has been done in this region?’
‘Yes, at least ninety per cent, I should think. I’ve had my hand in many of France ’s important paleolithic sites of the last couple of decades, including the Chauvet Cave down in Ardèche. For the last several seasons, I’ve been extending some old trenches originally dug by Professor Movius from Harvard at Les Eyzies. I’ve been busy.’
‘Not too busy for this?’ the abbot asked, pointing to the book.
‘Certainly not! How can I turn my back on a great intrigue?’
Dom Menaud was nodding and staring down at the cover. ‘Saint Bernard of Clairvaux is a very important figure in our order, are you aware of that?’
Hugo acknowledged he was well aware.
The abbot who was wearing his simple monk’s habit suddenly pursed his lips in concern. ‘As excited as I am to have a document associated in any way with him, we should be aware of some sensitivities. We don’t know what this Barthomieu has to say. Saint Bernard was one of our great men.’ He proceeded to unfold a finger for each point: ‘He was a founder of the Cistercian order. He was a participant in the Council of Troyes which confirmed the Order of the Knights Templar. He preached the Second Crusade. He established almost two hundred monasteries throughout Europe. His theological influence was immense. He had the ear of popes and famously was the one who denounced Pierre Abélard to Pope Innocent the Second.’ When Luc’s expression didn’t register recognition, the abbot added, ‘You know, the famous romance between Abélard and Héloïse, the great tragic love story of the middle ages?’
‘Ah yes!’ Luc said. ‘Every schoolboy’s forced to read their love letters.’
‘Well, later in Abélard’s life, long after his physical tragedy, as it were, Bernard made his life quite difficult again, but it was over a theological matter, not an affair of the heart! Well, to be sure, it’s just an interesting footnote. But nevertheless, for his great works, Bernard was not only canonised, but the Pope made him a Doctor of the Church in 1174 within a mere twenty years of his death! So, what I’m saying, gentlemen, is that even though this Barthomieu is dedicating a tract to the Saint almost two hundred years after his death, we have to be mindful of Bernard’s reputation. If I am to allow you to investigate this matter, I insist you exercise appropriate discretion and inform me of every finding so I may communicate to my superiors and take instructions. In this, as in all things in life, I am only a servant.’
From the rough map in the book, Luc had decided the best place to start their search was on the southern edge of Ruac, which was situated on the eastern bank of the Vézère. Ruac was an ancient village that, unlike many of its neighbours, completely lacked tourist attractions, and so it remained quiet throughout the year. There were no museums or galleries, only a single café and no signposts directing visitors to prehistoric caves or rock shelters. There was one main cobbled street lined by lemon-coloured stone houses – a good number still with their original lauzes roofs made of impossibly heavy slabs of mottled-grey rock, once common to the region, now rapidly vanishing, replaced by more practical terracotta-tiled roofs. It was a neat tidy enclave with modest gardens and poppy-stuffed flower boxes, and while Luc slowly drove through its heart, looking for a place to park, he made some idyllic comments about its unspoiled authenticity. Hugo was unmoved and flinched at an old heavy-haunched woman who scowled at the car as it squeezed past her on the narrow lane. At the end of a row of houses, as Luc was pondering which direction to take, a goat tethered near a tool shed within a small low-walled pasture spectacularly relieved itself and Hugo could no longer hold in his sentiments.
‘God, I hate the country!’ he exclaimed. ‘How on earth did you persuade me to come with you?’
Luc smiled and turned towards the river.
There wasn’t a convenient place to park, so Luc pulled the Land Rover onto a grass verge on the outskirts of the village. Through the woods, the river was unseen but faintly heard. He left a cardboard sign on the windscreen indicating they were on official University of Bordeaux business, which may or may not prevent ticketing, depending on the officiousness of the local gendarmes. He helped Hugo adjust his rucksack and the two of them delved into the forest.
It was hot and the air hummed with insects. There was no trail but the undergrowth of bushes, ferns and weeds wasn’t too thickly tangled. They had few problems weaving through the stands of horse chestnuts, oak and beech trees which formed an umbrella-like canopy, blocking the midday sun and cooling the air. It wasn’t completely virgin territory. A pile of crushed lager cans under a false acacia tree bore witness to recent nocturnal pursuits. Luc was peeved at the violation. An otherwise perfect image of hanging clusters of creamy flowers against a verdant background was spoiled by the litter and he grumbled that on their way back they should stop and clean up. Hugo rolled his eyes at the boy-scout sentiment and trudged onwards.
As they drew closer to the river, the sound of flowing water filled their ears until they broke through a heavy thicket and were suddenly on a ledge, a good twenty metres above the river. There was a splendid view across its wide, sparkling expanse towards the fertile valley on the opposite bank. The vast plain, a patchwork of asymmetrical fields of wheat and beans and grazing cattle seemed to fade and disappear into the hazy horizon.
‘Now where?’ Hugo asked as he uncomfortably adjusted his rucksack.