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Luc the route was automatic; he could almost close his eyes. The Land Rover, once dubbed the Gland Rover by a waggish English grad student, had a few hundred thousand kilometres on the clock. By day, when an excavation was running, it ferried students and equipment to the dig site on its unforgiving shock absorbers and by night, beer-stoked, hormonally charged young diggers to and from the local cafés.
    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