by Andrea Japp
Agnès needed no clarification in order to grasp the child’s meaning: Mabile had been sent by her former master to spy on her. Not that this came as any surprise – indeed, it explained rather better than compassion her brother’s persistent generosity.
Clément’s extraordinary precocity astounded Agnès. His keen intelligence, his relentless powers of observation and his remarkable ability to learn and memorise caused her on occasion to forget how young he was in years. Scarcely had Agnès finished teaching him the rudiments of the alphabet than he knew how to read and write. In contrast, her daughter Mathilde’s indifference to the advantages of knowledge meant she was at pains to recite even the simplest prayer. Mathilde possessed the grace and delicacy of a butterfly and the complexities of life quickly bored her. Perhaps the explanation lay in Clément’s strange birth. Mathilde was still a child, whereas it seemed to Agnès sometimes that Clément was becoming more and more like a companion upon whom she could depend. To what extent had the child understood Eudes’s wicked scheming? How conscious was he of the threat hanging over the three of them? Did he know the cruel fate that awaited him if his true origin were ever brought to light? The bastard progeny of a violated servant girl, the orphan of a suicide seduced by the fables of heresy, who had escaped torture and burning at the stake thanks to Agnès’s unwitting collusion. And what if someone were to suspect what the child knew he must conceal? She shuddered at the thought. How could she have been so oblivious to Sybille’s asceticism that she attributed her compulsive behaviour to the pregnancy forced on her by a common brute? Had she been blind? And yet in all honesty, what would she have done had she known? Nothing, to be sure. She would certainly not have turned the poor wretched girl out. As for denouncing her – that was a vile, wicked act to which Agnès would never have stooped.
‘Will my good master, the Baron de Larnay, be passing the night here, Madame? If so, I should send Adeline to prepare his quarters,’ Mabile observed, lowering her gaze.
‘I know not whether he intends to honour us with his presence tonight.’
‘The journey is nearly seven or eight leagues.+ He and his steed will doubtless be weary. I don’t suppose they will arrive here until after none,+ or even vespers,’+ she lamented.
What a relief it would be if he lost his way in the forest and never came out! Agnès thought, and declared:
‘Indeed, what a tiring journey, and how kind of him to undertake it in order to pay us a visit.’
Mabile gave a little nod of approval at her new mistress’s observation, adding:
‘How true. You have an admirable brother, Madame.’
Agnès’s eyes met Clément’s and the boy quickly turned away, concentrating his gaze on the glowing embers in the huge hearth. Whole stags had been roasted there when Hugues was still of this world.
Agnès had never loved her husband while he was alive; the idea of forming an emotional bond with this man to whom she was being given in matrimony had never crossed her mind. At just thirteen, she was of age,2 and was obliged to wed the pious, courteous gentleman. He showed her the same respect as he would if her true mother had been the Baroness de Larnay rather than her lady-in-waiting. In any event, he had been gracious enough never to remind her that she was the last illegitimate child of noble birth sired by Eudes’s father Robert, the late Baron de Larnay. Robert, in a fit of remorse that coincided with a tardy devoutness, had demanded that his daughter be recognised, and even Eudes, who would not gain from such an official recognition of parenthood, had complied. And so the old Baron Robert de Larnay had quickly married the adolescent girl off to his old drinking, feasting and fighting companion Hugues de Souarcy, a childless widower, but, above all, his most loyal vassal. He had settled a small dowry on Agnès, but her astonishing beauty and extreme youth had been enough to conquer the heart of her future spouse. For her part she had accepted with good grace this marriage that conferred upon her a certain status, but more importantly placed her beyond her half-brother’s reach. But Hugues had died without producing a son and now, at twenty-five, the position in which she found herself was hardly better than when she had lived in her father’s house. Naturally, she received a dower3 from her husband’s estate, though it was barely enough for her to run her household. It represented only a third of the few remaining properties Hugues had not squandered, comprising the Manoir de Souarcy and its adjoining land, as well as an expanse of arid grey terrain known as La Haute-Gravière where only thistles and nettles grew. However, her dower was far from safe, for if, as she feared, Eudes was able to show that her conduct as a widow was inappropriate, she would be dispossessed in accordance with an old Normandy custom stipulating: ‘A loose-living woman forfeits her dower.’ At the cost of interminable wars, the province of Normandy had remained in the realm for the past hundred years, but it conserved its customs and fiercely asserted the right to a ‘Norman Charter’ that enshrined its traditional privileges. These did not favour women, and if Agnès’s half-brother achieved his ends, there would be only three ways for her to escape destitution: the convent – which would mean leaving her daughter in Eudes’s predatory hands; remarriage, if he gave his consent – which he could withhold; and death – for she would never yield to him.
Mabile’s sighs brought her back to reality.
‘What a pity it is Wednesday, a fast day.4 Were my master to stay until tomorrow he could enjoy our fine pheasants. Tonight he will have to make do with plain vegetable soup, no pork, spiced mushrooms and a dried fruit pudding.’
‘There is no place for regrets of this kind in my house, Mabile. As for my brother, I am sure that, like the rest of us, he finds great solace in penitence,’ Agnès retorted, her thoughts elsewhere.
‘Oh yes, like the rest of us, Madame,’ repeated the other woman, fearful her remark might be deemed sacrilegious.
A loud commotion emanating from the main courtyard put an end to Mabile’s discomposure. Eudes had arrived. She hurried over to fetch the whip hanging behind the door that was used to calm the dogs, and rushed out squeaking with joy. The thought occurred to Agnès that her half-brother might enjoy in this lady’s maid something more than a loyal servant. Perhaps the poor girl hoped Eudes would leave her with child, and deceived herself into thinking her bastard progeny would enjoy the same fate as Agnès and be recognised. She was mistaken. Eudes was not his father, Robert. Far from it, and yet the Baron had been no saint or even a man of honour. No, his son would sooner cast her out without a penny than suffer the slightest inconvenience. She would join the legions of dishonoured women who ended up in houses of ill repute, or worked on farms as day labourers in exchange for a meal and a tiny room in which to carry out their thankless chores.
Mathilde leapt up, scampering after Mabile to greet her uncle, who as a rule arrived bearing armfuls of rare and precious gifts. The Larnay wealth was among the most coveted in the Perche region. The family had had the good fortune to discover iron ore on their lands, which they exploited in the form of an opencast mine. The monarchy valued the ore – which was the envy of the English – and this manna had earned the feudal Baron a measure of royal patronage since King Philip IV the Fair* was eager to avoid any temptation on the part of the Larnay family to form an alliance with the age-old enemy. The kingdom of France had reached a partial accord with the English, but it was a volatile alliance on both sides, despite the planned union between Philip’s daughter Isabelle and Edward II Plantagenet.5
Eudes, while not renowned for his intelligence, was no fool. Philip the Fair’s limitless need for funds made him a difficult, even a dangerous sovereign. The Baron’s approach was simple and had borne fruit: he would grovel and pledge his loyalty to the King by alluding indirectly to the demands and the offers of the English; in brief, he would show his allegiance, reassure him, while at the same time encouraging his generosity. It did not pay, however, to go too far; Philip and his counsellors had not hesitated to imprison Gui de Dampierre in order to rob him of Flanders, to confiscate the propert
y of the Lombards and the Jews or even to order the abduction of Pope Boniface VIII* during his visit to Anagni.* Eudes was well aware that if he opposed the King or displeased him in the smallest way, it would not be long before he was discovered at the bottom of a ditch or stabbed to death by some providential vagabond.
Agnès stood up with a sigh, adjusting her belt and veil. A quiet voice made her jump:
‘Take heart, Madame. He is no match for you.’
It was Clément. He was so good at making himself inconspicuous, invisible almost, that she had all but forgotten he was there.
‘Do you believe that?’
‘I know it. After all, he is only a dangerous fool.’
‘Dangerous, indeed – dangerous and powerful.’
‘More powerful than you, but less so than others.’
And with these words he slipped through a small postern door leading to the servants’ garderobe.6
What a strange child, she thought, making her way towards the hubbub outside. Was he capable of reading her thoughts?
Eudes’s voice boomed out. He was shouting orders, bullying this person and showering abuse on that. The moment Agnès appeared in the courtyard, the expression of loathing and irritation on her brother’s face was replaced by a smile. He walked over to her with open arms and cried out:
‘Madame, you grow more radiant every day! Those mastiffs of yours are wild animals. You must set aside a pair of males for me from the next litter.’
‘What a pleasure to see you, brother. Indeed, they are fierce towards strangers, but loyal and gentle with their masters and the herds. I trust your household is thriving. And how is your good lady wife, my sister Apolline?’
‘Big with child, as is her custom. If only she could manage to produce a son! And how she stinks of garlic, sweet Jesus! She pollutes the air from dawn till dusk. Her physic maintains that taking brews and baths made from the revolting bulb will produce a male. So she swallows it, stews in it, spews it – in short, she makes my days a living hell, and as for my nights …’
‘Let us pray that she will soon bear you a sturdy son, and me a handsome nephew,’ interrupted Agnès.
She, too, opened her arms in order to seize the hands that threatened to close around her body. And then she quickly moved away under the pretext of giving orders to the farm hand, who was struggling to control Eudes’s exhausted, nervous mount.
‘Why don’t you get off that horse!’ Eudes barked at the page, who was nodding off astride his broad-chested gelding.
The young lad, barely twelve years old, leapt from the saddle as if he had been kicked.
‘Good. Now get a move on! A pox on your sluggishness,’ Eudes roared.
The terrified boy began seeing to the load weighing down his packhorse.
Acting the suzerain, Eudes led his sister into the vast dining hall – so cool even the worst heatwave could barely warm its walls. Mabile had laid the table and was leaning against the wall awaiting her orders, her head bowed and her hands clasped in front of her apron. Agnès noticed that she had taken the trouble to change her bonnet.
‘Fetch me a ewer so I may rinse my hands,’ Eudes ordered, without so much as a glance in her direction.
As soon as the girl had gone, he asked Agnès:
‘Does she please you, my lamb?’
‘Indeed, brother, she is obedient and hard-working. Although I suspect she misses serving in your household.’
‘What of it! Her opinion doesn’t interest me. Good God, I’m ravenous! Well, my beauty. What news from your part of the world?’
‘Not a great deal, to be sure, brother. We had four new piglets this spring, and so far the rye and barley crops are flourishing. We expect a good yield, if the continual rain of the past few years stays away. When I think that less than fifteen years ago they were harvesting strawberries in Alsace in January! But I mustn’t bore you with my farmer’s complaints. Your niece,’ she pointed to Mathilde, ‘has been bursting with eagerness to see you again.’
He turned towards the little girl, who had been vainly attempting to attract his attention with smiles and sighs.
‘How pretty she is, with that little face and those honey-blonde curls. And those big dreamy eyes! What passions you will soon provoke, my beloved.’
The overjoyed girl gave a polite curtsey. Her uncle continued:
‘She is made in your image, Agnès.’
‘On the contrary, I think she resembles you when you were a child – much to my pleasure. Although you and I, it is true, might have been mistaken for twins had it not been for your superior strength.’
She was lying deliberately. They had never borne the slightest resemblance to one another – except for the colour of their coppery golden hair. Eudes was stocky, with heavy features, a square jaw, an overly pointed nose, and his skinny lips resembled a gash when they were not uttering some bawdy word or insult.
All of a sudden his face grew sullen, and she wondered if she had gone too far. His eyes still riveted on his half-sister, he said to the girl in a soft voice:
‘How would you like to do me a good turn, my angel?’
‘Nothing would please me more, uncle.’
‘Run and find out what has become of that good-for-nothing page. He’s taking a long time to unload his horse and bring me what I requested.’
Mathilde turned and hurried out to the courtyard. Eudes continued solemnly:
‘Were it not for your goodness, Agnès, I would have resented the distress your arrival into this world caused my mother. What a slight, what an insult for such a pious, irreproachable woman.’
Agnès was glad of the remark, for she feared he had seen through her charade. Indeed, at every visit he managed to recall in the most obvious way his generosity as a boy, forgetting how he had snubbed and mistreated her until Baron Robert demanded that she be regarded as a young lady. Strangely, after her mother had died, when Agnès was barely three years old, Baroness Clémence had grown tremendously attached to this child of an adulterous union. It had amused her to show the girl how to read and write, to teach her Latin and the rudiments of arithmetic and philosophy, as well as her own two great passions: sewing and astronomy.
‘Your mother was my good angel, Eudes. I can never thank her enough in my prayers for the kindness she showed me. Her memory is alive in my heart and a constant comfort.’
Tears welled up in her eyes, spontaneous tears for once that were a sign of true affection and grief.
‘Forgive my brutishness, my beauty! I am well aware of your devotion to my mother. At times I behave like an oaf, pray forgive me.’
She forced a smile:
‘No, brother. You are always good.’
Persuaded of her gratitude and respect for him, he changed the subject:
‘And what of that little rascal who is always hiding behind your skirts. What is his name? He has not made an appearance yet.’
Agnès knew instantly that he was referring to Clément, but pretended she was racking her brains in order to give herself time to decide what attitude she should adopt.
‘A little rascal, you say?’
‘You know. The orphan whom your kindness compelled you to take into your household.’
‘Do you mean Clément?’
‘Indeed. What a shame he isn’t a girl. We could have given him to the sisters at Clairets Abbey* as an offering to God7 and spared you the extra mouth to feed.’
As overlord, Eudes had the authority to do this if he wished, and Agnès would have no say in the matter.
‘Clément is no trouble to me, brother. He is content with little and has a gentle, quiet nature. I rarely see him, but at times his presence amuses me.’ Convinced that her brother’s aim was to gratify her at little cost to himself, she added, ‘I confess that I would miss him. He accompanies me on my rounds of the estate and its neighbouring communes.’
‘Indeed, too gentle and too puny to make a soldier out of him. He could become a friar, perhaps, in a few years’ t
ime.’
She must on no account openly oppose Eudes. He was one of those fools who dug in their heels at the slightest resistance, immediately manoeuvring others into a position of defeat. It was their customary way of convincing themselves of their power. Agnès continued in the same measured tone with a hint of feigned uncertainty:
‘If he proves competent enough, my intention is to make him my apothecary or physic. I shall be much in need of one. Learning fascinates him, and he already knows all about the medicinal herbs. But he is young yet. We shall discuss it when the time comes, brother, for I know you to be an able judge where people are concerned.’
Children are credited with an infallible instinct. Mathilde was worrying proof of the contrary. Having first tasted the fruits and sweetmeats, she sat at her uncle’s feet chattering away, delighted each time he kissed her hair or slipped his fingers down the collar of her tunic to caress the nape of her neck. Her uncle’s accounts of his hunting exploits and his travels fascinated her. She devoured him with her eyes, an enchanted smile spreading across her pretty face. Agnès thought that she must soon explain her uncle’s shameful nature to her. But how? Mathilde adored Eudes. She regarded him as so powerful, so radiant; in short, so wonderful. He brought within the thick cold grey walls of the Manoir de Souarcy the promise of a life of easy grandeur that intoxicated her daughter to the point of clouding her judgement. Agnès could not blame her. What did she know of the ways of the world, this little girl who in less than a year would become a woman? She had only ever known the pressures of farm life: the mud of stables and sties, the worry of the harvests, the coarse clothing and the fear of famine and illness.
An unbearable thought struck Agnès with full force. Eudes would repeat with his niece what he had attempted with his half-sister when she was barely eight, given half the chance. The extent to which he was in thrall to his incestuous passion terrified Agnès. There were plenty of peasants and maids for him to mount, some of whom were flattered by the interest their master showed in their charms, while others – the majority – simply resigned themselves. After all, they had already suffered the father and grandfather before him.
