The Assassin's Curse by Kevin Sands

Author:Kevin Sands
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Aladdin

CHAPTER

31

MAGNIFICENT.

Nothing had prepared me for the Cathédrale Notre-Dame. We stood in front of the western entrance, the twin bell towers stretching up hundreds of feet, piercing the sky above the sloped lead roof. A rose-shaped stained glass window sat in the center of the facade, behind statues of angels that surrounded our Savior and the Virgin Mother. Below them were dozens of saints, carved above three massive oaken doors riveted with iron. The doors, sunken into arches, were themselves surrounded by intricate figures: Mary on the left, Saint Anne on the right, and the Day of the Last Judgment at the main entrance in the center.

Impossibly, the interior of the cathedral was even more majestic. Giant pillars rose three stories high to the ceiling, buttressed by heavy beams. Tapestries hung from each pillar, all the way down the aisle. Stained glass shined rainbow light through the clerestory, but most of the church’s illumination was provided by hundreds and hundreds of candles, flickering in the chapels along the walls.

We were flanked by statues on either side. The first, and grandest, was a familiar, colossal figure, dozens of feet high: Saint Christopher, once again. I wasn’t sure who the others were; more saints, I presumed, though there were far too many to identify them all. They looked so realistic, I half expected them to come to life.

Tom spoke quietly, not wishing to disturb the peace inside the church. “What do we do now?”

I opened the poem and read the second verse.

King triumphant, man is soot

Path is followed underfoot.

Underfoot, I thought.

Among the faithful praying were a pair of boys at work. One of them scrubbed the floor by the choir; the other lit candles at the side of the nave. I went to the one lighting candles. “Excuse me.”

“Yes, monsieur?” he said.

“Is there a crypt, or are there any tombs, in this cathedral?” I said.

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Would you be able to show us?”

“I’m not supposed to leave my duties.”

I didn’t think this would require nearly as large a donation as I’d given Father Bernard. I pulled a pair of sou from my purse.

It was enough. The boy pocketed the coins and led us along the side of the church, past the transept and main altar to the chapels at the back. He pointed to the tombs beside them. “Here you are, monsieur. There are a few men buried here.”

The tombs were simple affairs. Each held an effigy of a man in robes lying at rest over a slab of marble. “Who are these people?” I said.

“I’m not sure, monsieur.”

This wasn’t really what I’d expected. “Isn’t there a crypt under the cathedral?”

“No, monsieur. The city buries its dead in the cemeteries. There are many tombs at the Cimetière des Innocents, if that’s what you search for.”

It wasn’t. I frowned and thought about Voiture’s poem. Path is followed underfoot.

I looked the tombs over again. They might match the second verse: The bodies were definitely “underfoot.” Except none of these men could be Jacques de Molay. He’d been burned as a heretic; they’d never have buried him in consecrated ground.

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