The Devil's Crossing

by Hana Cole

  Body shivering as though it were midwinter, she jumped up, mind racing ahead of her to the village square where those voices would become accusing screeches, fingers jabbing blame. She searched the room for an anchor. But he was not there. She felt as though she were being buried alive. Inhaling sharply, she caught the smell of his warm musk mixed with the frankincense that he used in the church. It was such a visceral assault on her senses, she crumpled down onto the writing bench. Please God, no.

  ‘Where are you?’ she whispered into the empty space. Louder now, insides crawling with desperation, ‘Where are you?!’ Then, body thrown forward as though by a gale, she ran towards the fields, towards whatever the Devil had wrought.

  Chapter Six

  Water tumbled from the lip of the silver jug into the inquisitor’s cup of wine. He watched as it mingled with the viscous, plum liquid, fighting the urge to touch the letter in his pouch. He knew Amaury, Lord of Maintenon, considered him a useful fool. France was riddled with nobility who used the clergy as a veneer of piety for their venal wants. It should have been a marriage of convenience between church and state, but the relationship between the two men had been unbalanced by the misfortune of happenstance. Finally, though, with this letter, Inquisitor de Nogent had acquired the power to make it a partnership of equals. He was going to savour playing this card as long as he could.

  Slowly, he brought the vessel to his lips and allowed a few drops to roll over his tongue. From the brim of his cup he could see his host massaging the knuckles of one hand with the spade-like palm of the other. They were hands that could snap a man’s neck as though it were a guinea fowl. How long would he be able to draw out the other man’s discomfort, he wondered? Not long, given the hot emotion he was about to kindle.

  ‘And how goes the construction of your castle, if I may ask, my lord?’ De Nogent began.

  ‘If you may ask.’ The big man rubbed the arm of the chair with a large, flat thumb. ‘Awaiting the completion of my keep. Once unveiled, it will be the largest keep in France.’

  Amaury of Maintenon was scion of a family who could trace back its line only two hundred years but, coffers full from booty won on the battlefield, he was determined to take his house from the backwaters of the Loire and into the royal court of France.

  ‘And such an undertaking it is, my lord. What a testament that it is nearing completion in so few years.’

  Maintenon folded his arms. A man satisfied with his efforts. ‘Indeed. It is perfectly round, an entirely novel design. They tell me the king himself means to copy it.’

  ‘I would not doubt it.’

  Despite himself, Nogent angled his head sycophantically, ‘And the abbey..?’

  Maintenon leaned the bulk of his torso forward. Tired of vying for the attention of the bishop against men of greater means, he had undertaken to build an abbey into which he could install his own man.

  ‘ Once the keep is finished, it will free up the necessary resources,’ Maintenon said. ‘As I am sure you have noticed, the foundations are set. It will be for the new abbot to oversee the rest. When I see fit to appointment him.’

  The new abbot. The inquisitor gave a strained smile. ‘There is more than one candidate?’

  ‘For a seat of power outside the jurisdiction of the bishop, a direct line to the Holy See ? There is always more than one candidate for the post of an abbot.’

  De Nogent pressed his lips together until the thin line of flesh disappeared. After so many years of broken promises he had thought himself immune to such double dealing, but still he felt a stab of betrayal to hear it spoken aloud – and so brazenly to boot.

  ‘One willing to wait ten years with nothing but a muddy field and a few lumps of sandstone to hope in?’ De Nogent said tartly.

  Maintenon’s face soured.

  Gazing carelessly into the contents of his cup the inquisitor continued, ‘I remember well the nobleman who came to me denouncing a merchant and his daughter as heretics. Of course I agreed to investigate the case even before I learned the happy coincidence of their valuable estate.’

  Maintenon’s lip curled upwards.‘Your piety has always been most commendable.’

  ‘An abbacy hardly seems excessive recompense for the cause of righteousness.’

  ‘The gift of the abbey is mine, but it is for Bishop Reginald to confirm the appointment of abbot.’ Maintenon shrugged helplessly. ‘All I can do is offer charity.’

  ‘You know as well as I that the appointment by the bishop is a mere formality. The choice of abbot is a boon of the abbey’s benefactor.’

  The letter tucked inside his cloak was burning a hole in the inquisitor’s chest. He smoothed his hand over it as though petting a cat. A scratch in his throat provoked a small, dry cough. Drawing himself up straight in his chair, he fought the urge to take a sip of wine. Enough of this insult.

  ‘My lord Amaury, it pains me to have to remind you that you would not have acquired the means to fund such charity were it not for my assistance.’

  Maintenon’s nostrils flared. ‘That was before the Le Coudray girl escaped,’ he said. ‘And you were dispatched elsewhere.’

  De Nogent ignored the insult. ‘An unfortunate mishap,’ he retorted. ‘If I remember the father’s ashes gained near ten thousand acres of good soil and enough cash from the salt roads to field an army against a count.’

  The inquisitor looked out the window, heart pattering in outrage. His eye caught the sharp veins of twisted lead and stone stumps of the abbey beyond - testament only to the greedy self-interest of a man whose insatiable appetites far outstripped his means. He cringed inwardly at the thought of how easily he had been duped. Had Maintenon ever meant forgo any of his income to build for the glory of God? He doubted it. Ignominy heating his blood, he narrowed his regard and said deliberately, ‘Yet still you want more.’

  ‘Warfare is an expensive business,’ said Maintenon.

  ‘As is purchasing the favour of those in the highest ranks of courtly circles.’

  A vein in the nobleman’s neck popped against taut muscle.

  ‘Not as costly as purchasing the ear of the pope. I come from the ranks of those who fight, Inquisitor de Nogent. You think I can’t tell ambition when I see it? Or do you think it reasonable to suppose I would put your ambition before my own?’

  De Nogent could feel the other man’s desire to do violence radiating towards him. Placing his cup down precisely on the table, the inquisitor brought the palms of his hands together. Ten years seemed as nothing. It was time to play his card.

  ‘One of my informants intercepted this on the road from Vendôme.’ De Nogent withdrew the letter from his cloak and perched keenly on his seat, ready to watch the Greek fire. ‘It would seem, as I have long suspected, that Agnes Le Coudray alive and well. And nearby.’

  ‘What?’ The Lord of Maintenon ground his teeth. ‘That old fool at Chartres said she was found drowned.’

  ‘Abbot Roger?’ De Nogent tutted. ‘Trying to protect the de Courville boy no doubt.’ He squeezed his fingernails into his palm as momentarily he re-lived the stinging humiliation. The utter shock that de Courville - a mere novice! - had freed a heretic, yet it was he who suffered the greater consequences of her escape. Chastened for his zealous approach, he had been sent to the southern lands, as lowly assistant to the inquisitors there. Six years it had taken him to make it back to the north, within striking distance of the Parisian courts. The rest of the time he had spent bartering with the man opposite him for his rightful due. Flexing his fingers he gave a dismissive shake of his head.

  ‘And you did not know that at the time?’ Maintenon studied him with a cold, predatory eye.

  ‘Roger was the king’s tutor. I was hardly in a position to interrogate him.’

  ‘What has changed?’

  ‘I’m glad you asked that,’ de Nogent said with a sly smile. ‘The old man will be dead within the month.’ He placed the letter carefully on the table before Maintenon; the trump card of a winning hand
.

  A low growl bubbled in Maintenon’s throat. ‘Let me guess, Bishop Reginald of Chartres doesn’t have you in mind to fill the vacancy?’

  De Nogent’s cheeks hollowed.

  Maintenon snatched up the letter, shaking it out as though he were trying to hurl the words from the page. Shoulders hunched against the assault of his emotions, the grey eyes darkened to a storm. He placed the note back down on the table beside him, but the inquisitor saw how he struggled to withdraw his gaze, as though fearful it might make some move against him.

  Bernard de Nogent gave a thin smile. He had been steeling himself for the explosive anger of the other man, but not this, not fear. After all these years.

  ‘I have dispatched retainers to apprehend her and will depart immediately to verify. If it is indeed her, then I will bring her back to account for her heresy,’ he said solemnly.

  The nobleman’s jaw muscles bulged beneath his beard. ‘That is what you said last time.’

  The prelate’s eyelids fluttered at the affront. He reached deep for his composure. There were other cards yet to play. ‘There were circumstances beyond my control. There is no need for my lordship to be concerned.’

  Maintenon knuckles cracked as he rubbed his fists together. ‘You dare to come talk to me of the abbey whilst all along the Le Coudray whore has been at large. She could have spread her lies to anyone with an ear to listen,’ he spat.

  ‘Lies?’ De Nogent opened up an inquiring hand – what lies, indeed? ‘Who would listen? She is a heretic.’ He allowed the breath of a pause to whisper its doubt. ‘Were she in the hands of another, well, after all these years, we might be concerned she could convince them of her innocence… And her title.’ He let the last word echo into the high, vaulted ceiling. ‘But I can assure you my men have her under guard as we speak. And I shall be moved by no such clemency.’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’ Maintenon gripped the arms of the chair with both hands. De Nogent could feel the menace of the other’s man’s powerful frame barely restrained. Shrinking back in his chair, the prelate held out a defensive palm. ‘Of course not, my Lord.’

  ‘Then see that you burn her.’ Maintenon exhaled loudly, a bestial snort.

  ‘The letter also talks of a boy.’ The steel eyes spoke murder. ‘An heir.’

  De Nogent nodded gravely. ‘I am making inquiries. It seems she may have sired a bastard.’

  ‘Find him.’ The big man shifted his bulk uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Then perhaps we can consider the matter of the abbacy.’

  ‘I understand.’ The prelate placed his hand over his heart. ‘But there is no need for concern. I doubt he even knows his grandfather had an income of the plumpest northern baron.’ An apologetic bow. ‘You are a busy man. A servant can see me out.’

  Disappearing into the velvet comforts of his carriage, Bernard de Nogent packed away his smile and banged on the roof for his driver to depart. The meeting had been more instructive than he hoped. He knew Maintenon wanted the ghosts of the past consigned to their graves, but his reaction had been so visceral that de Nogent was sure he had stumbled upon something more – some other weakness ripe for exploitation.

  Gazing out upon the embryonic columns of the abbey as he rode by, he could not help but see a future version of himself vigilantly surveying the grounds, the weight of an abbot’s velvets on his shoulders, proud as any new parent. Unaccustomed as he was to dwelling on the sensations of his physical body, Bernard de Nogent felt his chest lift, and his spine straighten. Even seated in his carriage, he felt a head taller. Head of a monastic order fit for the new world of righteousness ushered in by His Eminence, Pope Innocent III. Then, wagon juddering over the deep, muddy ruts as the incipient building disappeared from view, he crossed himself for the sin of pride.

  *

  It was shortly before Compline and the royal purples of sunset had yielded to the cloak of night. The inquisitor had supped well; a Grave of small birds accompanied by thick, lightly-browned rounds of bread. Although his portion, naturally, had been no more than a few mouthfuls - a discipline to which he gladly submitted as befitted the austerity of his position.

  Hands touching briefly in prayer, he stood and smoothed down his vestments in preparation for a final tour of the dungeons before turning in. Men less conscientious than he would doubtless have foregone this most difficult of tasks, but as hard as was the observance of human suffering, how great was the consolation of knowing the he was offering a gift to those souls. Each one, born in Christ, was receiving no less than a final opportunity to find their way back to salvation through His mercy.

  The prison was silent but for his footsteps and the whine of his latest guest that put him in mind of a fox injured by a farmer’s trap. It was the Devil’s anguish at losing his grip, he reminded himself, and a sure sign that his ministrations were working.

  ‘Mercy,’ the woman raised her head, although she did not look him in the eye. Wrists bloodied and scabbed from the shackles that chained her, she wore only an under garment, torn from where his agents had inspected her for signs of the Devil. Jaw clenched against the stench of her soiled tunic, the inquisitor nodded in sympathy.

  ‘Then you are ready, my child?’

  ‘Please, my lord. No more.’ The voice was barely audible. ‘It was the Devil, like you said. He came to me.’ She began to sob. ‘He came to me and I did know it.’

  A shudder of satisfaction rippled inside him. Bernard de Nogent extended a long, thin finger towards to bars of the cell.

  ‘I know, my child. It is a terrible thing. But you will be at peace soon enough.’

  Suddenly, as if powered by some unseen life force, the woman hoisted herself up on the bars. ‘What of my daughter? Now will you tell me how she fares?’

  The inquisitor drew his head back. ‘Have no fear. All the innocents are taken into the bosom of the Church.’

  The sunken eyes gripped onto De Nogent.‘Let me see her! Just for a moment. Please.’

  De Nogent sighed as he turned away, shaking his head in sad contemplation of how vulnerable was the female sex to the temptations of the Dark One.

  ‘My Lord,’ the butler’s voice rasped. ‘Your guest has arrived.’

  The man before him wore a blouson of blue and yellow silk, his beard waxed to a point at the chin. Christian he called himself, although de Nogent doubted it was his real name any more than it was his faith. He grimaced at such detestable vanity and the stink of the man’s pomander. Initially receptacles for religious keepsakes, the latest fashion had them filled with perfumes, an innovation of which the inquisitor heartily disapproved.

  The spy rubbed his hands lasciviously. ‘An honour to receive another invitation so soon, your reverence.’

  De Nogent rolled his eyes inwardly. For years his patience had been tried by the sloth of rag-tag informants - nothing but criminals whose good fortune had seen them cheat the gallows. But the Lord never failed to reward those whose work was just, and it had been this Christian who intercepted the letter sent by the Le Coudray whore. As much as he wished the Lord had chosen a less vulgar vehicle, the message was unmistakable. So much more than proof, it was a weapon. One that the Lord intended for him to strike not only at the black heart of heresy but also at the servants of Satan within the Church who suffered them to live.

  Uninvited, an image of Gui de Courville assaulted his mind’s eye. The scruffy curls and contrived air of distraction – mere childish dishevelment that Abbot Roger had mistaken for scholarship. Nothing but an upstart novice protected by a senile old man. How well that boy had played the wide-eyed innocent. How easily he beguiled others with false charm, whilst an authorised Church inquisitor who toiled tirelessly was left unrewarded. De Nogent ground his teeth at the memory.

  ‘I need some more information,’ he said to the spy. ‘The letter you acquired mentioned a boy.’

  Christian smiled broadly, revealing a full set of ivory teeth. Some price, thought de Nogent.

  ‘I need to know his w
hereabouts.’

  ‘Quite a task,’ said Christian.

  With a sideways glance, de Nogent followed as the spy’s eyes wandered over the hand-carved oak table and the heavy, silk curtains that concealed the doorway into the main residence. Con-men always have a nose for exactly what another man is prepared to give.

  ‘Not a task beyond your…considerable ability, I trust?’

  Christian brought his palms together in mock prayer. ‘I pray you jest!’

  ‘I never jest.’

  The spy’s hands sprang apart with a peel of laughter. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I require confirmation of the boy’s parentage.’ De Nogent’s tongue hovered between his open teeth – what to tell this brigand without revealing the personal value of the information. An heir to the Le Coudray estate, whom, once cloistered inside a carefully selected monastery, would be an untouchable weapon with which to goad Maintenon. Equally as rewarding would be the satisfaction of having de Courville know that his spawn was in the hands of the Church.

  ‘Le Coudray’s, one assumes from the letter,’ he continued, ‘but assumption, Monsieur Christian, is the midwife of disaster.’

  Christian chortled. ‘How wise.’ He rocked forward onto the balls of his feet. ‘And compensation..?’

  ‘The per diem will be as previously.’

  Christian the spy ran his tongue over his lips, and gave a resigned twitch of his brow.

  ‘Good.’ De Nogent’s gaze drifted to his aged butler as he dropped a coin into the spy’s hand. Christian tipped his feathered hat and fell in behind the butler, sauntering down the hallway like a tourist at a Venetian palace.

  De Nogent’s eyes fluttered shut. Tomorrow he would go to Montoire sur Eure in person and interrogate Le Coudray. Maintenon was hiding something, he could feel it. And he was willing to wager that whore knew what it was. If he could prove the bastard was an heir to the estate then all the better. He would hold Maintenon to ransom, and burn both the parents.