Read Online The Book of Love by Kathleen McGowan - Free Book Online
Authors: Kathleen McGowan
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even the holiest of men?
He looked down at the aged manuscript that covered his desk, the one that preoccupied his days and his nights. It had once been in the highly prized personal collection of Pope Urban VIII, and it contained a series of prophecies. Written like poetry, the verses—sometimes in French, sometimes Italian—had been committed to paper over many generations. Because the verses were quatrains, consisting of four lines each, some scholars before him had credited these verses to the famous French prophet Nostradamus. Indeed, this manuscript had been filed in the Biblioteca Apostolica as the work of Nostradamus for a hundred years until Father Girolamo rescued it. He knew that this document was potentially priceless, and certainly not the work of one author. Rather, it was a work that appeared to span centuries. And while the verses had been translated over and over again, he still did not have the key to their true meanings. The quatrains were written in a type of code, a prophetic language that could not be interpreted except by those who were born to comprehend it.
And still, he tried. He took the lines apart, one by one, for hours at a time. There was a specific prophecy that had become an obsession for him, the French one that began with “ Les temps revient .” The time returns.
Father Girolamo studied the page, willing the meaning of the phrase and the prophecy which followed to come to him. In one hand he clutched a lovely and delicate crystal case, shaped like a locket, which contained the relic of a visionary. He prayed that the reliquary would aid him in his translation, but thus far the words had not revealed their secrets to him.
The old priest sighed and sat back from his task. While Father Girolamo was based in Rome and had been for the majority of his long life, his confraternity had had its origins in Tuscany, in the Middle Ages. Today he felt as though he had been running it since the Middle Ages. Yet there was more work to be done, and he had another document that must occupy his time for the moment. Gently, he replaced the book of prophecies in the locked drawer that was its secret resting place.
Peter Healy was on his way over, and Father Girolamo must be prepared to address him regarding this fascinating new development.
Peter stood before the enormous tapestry that covered one wall of the confraternity’s private offices. It was created in the Netherlands in the late fifteenth century, as were the more famous unicorn tapestries that were now housed in museums in New York City and Paris. This one, called The Killing of the Unicorn , illustrated an elaborate hunting sequence. The mythical beast was surrounded by hunters wielding lances, and several in the hunting party were thrusting their spears into the trapped creature’s body. The unicorn bled profusely from those wounds, and others inflicted by the hounds which were viciously tearing at its flesh. A trumpeter announced the death of the beast with great ceremony and celebration, in the foreground of the textile. While the tapestry was a masterwork of Flemish craftsmanship, the subject matter might appear disturbing to the uninitiated.
“Profoundly beautiful, no?” Father Girolamo de Pazzi’s voice, raspy with nearly seven decades of preaching, greeted Peter as he entered the room behind him.
Peter nodded, smiling in greeting. “I have always loved the unicorn tapestries. This one is harsh, but it is beautiful.”
“The death of our Lord was harsh, and that is what this work of art is meant to remind us. He died for our sins, in a terrible way.” The old priest waved away the lesson. “But that is nothing you do not already know, for you are wise and learned beyond your years. Come in to my study, Peter. There is something I need to show you.”
Peter followed the old priest in comfortable silence. Since coming to Rome, Father Girolamo had befriended Peter. They met via Maggie Cusack, who was the most committed
He looked down at the aged manuscript that covered his desk, the one that preoccupied his days and his nights. It had once been in the highly prized personal collection of Pope Urban VIII, and it contained a series of prophecies. Written like poetry, the verses—sometimes in French, sometimes Italian—had been committed to paper over many generations. Because the verses were quatrains, consisting of four lines each, some scholars before him had credited these verses to the famous French prophet Nostradamus. Indeed, this manuscript had been filed in the Biblioteca Apostolica as the work of Nostradamus for a hundred years until Father Girolamo rescued it. He knew that this document was potentially priceless, and certainly not the work of one author. Rather, it was a work that appeared to span centuries. And while the verses had been translated over and over again, he still did not have the key to their true meanings. The quatrains were written in a type of code, a prophetic language that could not be interpreted except by those who were born to comprehend it.
And still, he tried. He took the lines apart, one by one, for hours at a time. There was a specific prophecy that had become an obsession for him, the French one that began with “ Les temps revient .” The time returns.
Father Girolamo studied the page, willing the meaning of the phrase and the prophecy which followed to come to him. In one hand he clutched a lovely and delicate crystal case, shaped like a locket, which contained the relic of a visionary. He prayed that the reliquary would aid him in his translation, but thus far the words had not revealed their secrets to him.
The old priest sighed and sat back from his task. While Father Girolamo was based in Rome and had been for the majority of his long life, his confraternity had had its origins in Tuscany, in the Middle Ages. Today he felt as though he had been running it since the Middle Ages. Yet there was more work to be done, and he had another document that must occupy his time for the moment. Gently, he replaced the book of prophecies in the locked drawer that was its secret resting place.
Peter Healy was on his way over, and Father Girolamo must be prepared to address him regarding this fascinating new development.
Peter stood before the enormous tapestry that covered one wall of the confraternity’s private offices. It was created in the Netherlands in the late fifteenth century, as were the more famous unicorn tapestries that were now housed in museums in New York City and Paris. This one, called The Killing of the Unicorn , illustrated an elaborate hunting sequence. The mythical beast was surrounded by hunters wielding lances, and several in the hunting party were thrusting their spears into the trapped creature’s body. The unicorn bled profusely from those wounds, and others inflicted by the hounds which were viciously tearing at its flesh. A trumpeter announced the death of the beast with great ceremony and celebration, in the foreground of the textile. While the tapestry was a masterwork of Flemish craftsmanship, the subject matter might appear disturbing to the uninitiated.
“Profoundly beautiful, no?” Father Girolamo de Pazzi’s voice, raspy with nearly seven decades of preaching, greeted Peter as he entered the room behind him.
Peter nodded, smiling in greeting. “I have always loved the unicorn tapestries. This one is harsh, but it is beautiful.”
“The death of our Lord was harsh, and that is what this work of art is meant to remind us. He died for our sins, in a terrible way.” The old priest waved away the lesson. “But that is nothing you do not already know, for you are wise and learned beyond your years. Come in to my study, Peter. There is something I need to show you.”
Peter followed the old priest in comfortable silence. Since coming to Rome, Father Girolamo had befriended Peter. They met via Maggie Cusack, who was the most committed
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