Priests' Code

B. Balthis B.

Description

FOR FANS OF DAN BROWN AND KATE MOSSEA secret kept for Millennia. Are you ready for the truth?An exhilarating mystery set in a Cotswold church and French village. Based on real life research and the breaking of secret codes. A must-read for lovers of conspiracy thrillers, history, the crusades, myth, legend, and truth-seekers everywhere.Benot Balthis, a French catholic priest and expert translator working in the Cotswolds, thinks his latest commission is just another interesting distraction. He is wrong. Parchments relating to the time of Christ, and entries written in an old diary, draw him into a world of secrets, lies, and murder.Together with his historian cousin, Caro, Benot sets out on a path of discovery that takes him home to France, and the hilltop village of Rennes-le-Chteau, once home to the infamous Abb Brenger Saunire and the messages he left behind over a hundred years before. The familiar surroundings reveal codes hidden in plain sight about the origins of Christianity and possibly the greatest conspiracy in known history.They begin a race against time to uncover the truth before the secrets are buried forever.This ground-breaking novel de-codes ancient messages that have defeated best minds across the world. It opens up new avenues of thought, and suggests theories that have, until now, remained concealed. It touches the very roots of humanity and its complexities, as well as the struggle to survive in a world that is often hostile and uncertain.A bold new voice in Thriller Fiction

Sujets

• Conspiracy theory

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 janvier 2018
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781788034821
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

Copyright © 2018 B. B. Balthis
The moral right of the author has been asserted.


Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.


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ISBN 978 1788034 821

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A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.


Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

To bring the dead to life
Is no great magic.
Few are wholly dead:
Blow on a dead man’s embers
And a live flame will start.
(Robert Graves)
Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
CHAPTER SEVENTY
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
CHAPTER EIGHTY
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
CHAPTER NINETY
EPILOGUE
A NOTE FROM B.B. BALTHIS
Reference
PROLOGUE
Vengeance is mine; I will repay.
(Romans 12:19)
2013
Matti Jonsson stood at the window, looking out into the black night. It was snowing again and even that looked black as it came down, in large, soft clumps. He could only just make out the lights from his nearest neighbours, a few hundred metres away.
His main base was a London flat but, like many Icelanders, he had a small log cabin perched on a mountainside, a few hours’ drive from Reykjavik. If something was bothering him, as it was now, then this was where he came.
His work as a renowned archaeologist meant that he travelled widely, but the past few months had been spent in England, working for the British Museum. It had been a particularly long and complex assignment, and one that had left him with considerable unease.
He walked over to the wood burner, threw in a few logs, and firmly closed its door. He then sat at his desk, picked up a file, and began to flick through a report he had written last week. He had been asked to visit an old church, and at a first glance it had seemed like so many others in the UK and was not likely to cause too much excitement. Further examination had, however, revealed things that were much less common… in fact, in his considerable career, things he had only ever seen once before.
He had sent a basic report to the museum, but since then had spoken to a colleague, done more research, and concluded that the church was indeed far more than it had first appeared. He had been left with a feeling of poking a stick into a hornets’ nest, and wished he had never set eyes on the place. A final conversation with a trusted, though now retired, professor, confirmed this, and he had been strongly advised to back off, which he fully intended to do.
At that moment, he heard a tapping sound. He went over to the window and peered through it, his face pressed hard against the cold glass, straining to see what might have made the noise. People who had cabins up here looked after each other, and emergencies were not unheard of in the hostile climate. He walked across the room, into the lobby, and opened the front door of the house, pulling on a thick jacket as he went outside. The cold hit him hard, and the great lumps of snow falling from the sky seemed even larger now he was outside. He took the torch from his pocket and shone it in front of him as he peered through the blackness.
‘Hello? Hello? Who’s there? I can’t see you… is there trouble? Please shout and I will come and find you.’ He continued to walk around the small, single-storey building and, for a moment, thought he saw a flash of orange at the rear corner of the house. He walked steadily on, his feet sinking into the thickening snow.
Then a voice came from behind him.
‘So, Jonsson, we meet again. Charming place you have here. Quite hard to find, but perhaps for you, not hard enough?’
Quickly turning around, Matti didn’t recognise him at first.
‘Who are you? What do you want?’ He reached up and snatched the large fur hat from the man’s head. With this gone, he shone the torch right into his face and stared. As he remembered, he stepped back, dropping the hat onto the snow. Gripped with fear, his voice shook as he spoke…
‘You? What the hell are you doing here? What do you want with me?’
‘I want nothing, Jonsson. But I have something for you… this.’
If he had been able to talk about what happened on that black, freezing night, Matti would have said that he had known what was coming the moment he realised who the man was. When the gun was raised and the shot fired directly into his chest, he had felt strangely peaceful. A sharp bolt of pain… a few flakes of snow on his face… then nothing.
CHAPTER ONE
There is always a pleasure in unravelling a mystery,
in catching at the gossamer clue
which will lead to certainty.
(Elizabeth Gaskell)
2015
My name is Father Benoît Balthis, although in England I am mostly known as Father Ben. As a fifty-five-year-old Catholic priest I have lived and worked in many places, but I was born in France and still consider it to be my true home.
My mother was French and my father Lithuanian, and they met in France during the Second World War. My mother was part of the French Resistance in the Languedoc region which was her home, and my father was a refugee, fleeing the Russian armies as they swept through the Baltic states in 1944. He had found himself in this part of France quite by chance, if there is such a thing, but you’ll hear more of their story as I continue to write.
I grew up in our ancestral home, which is a part of the ancient Château of Antugnac, a small village in the Aude region of the Languedoc, and almost hidden in the mountain ranges that were as much my home as the house was.
I was born on the 11 th of April 1960, in our home at the request of my mother. My French grandparents lived with us, or I should say, we lived with them, since the house was theirs. My mother had been born quite late in their marriage, and they were elderly when I arrived, my grandfather being seventy-three and my grandmother sixty-five. They welcomed my arrival with as much joy and love as I could take, and this I returned to them willingly.
My mother was a small-time dealer in antique furniture, and my father a skilled watch and clock restorer. They were, however, frequently away for weeks, sometimes even months at a time, for which no explanation was ever given. My grandparents looked after me during their absences, and I eventually learned to neither question their disappearance nor talk to anyone else about them. To avoid any tears when I was very young, they took to leaving in the middle of the night, and in the morning I would run around the house looking for them, searching each room, screaming and crying, much to my grandparents’ distress.
As I grew older, I became more accustomed to their absence and eventually accepted that this was how our lives were to be. I had my rambling home, my adoring grandparents, and the hills, mountains, and ancient villages to roam from dawn till dusk. I lacked nothing.
Many an evening after supper had been spent by the huge fireplace, flames leaping over the logs and the resinous scent of wood smoke permeating everything. I would listen, enraptured, to my grandparents, particularly my grandfather, who told stories about the area that he had lived in his whole life, as had his parents before h