The Lady Agnes Mystery, Volume 1

by Andrea Japp

  ‘I doubt it very much, Madame. Eudes may be a fool but even he must realise that the more accomplices he has, the greater the risk of his secret being discovered.’

  ‘You are right. So how does she inform him? He seldom comes to Souarcy, God be praised.’

  ‘I shall find out, I promise. Rest now, Madame, I will return to my lair.’

  Clément had made a little place for himself under the eaves. He had chosen the location with great care. He had built a ladder flimsy enough to deter any adult from climbing up. It gave him easy access from the end of the passageway that led to his mistress’s anteroom and chamber. In this way he could see anyone approaching. Another advantage was a tiny window that ventilated the eaves, and allowed him, with the aid of a rope, to come and go without the servants seeing him.

  Carcassonne,* June 1304

  A tall brown angel. Brother Nicolas Florin paused suddenly. The tonsure had not made this young man ugly; on the contrary it lengthened his pale brow, giving him the appearance of a proud chimera.

  Brother Bartolomeo de Florence was standing on his right, his eyes lowered towards his clasped hands.

  Nicolas murmured in his strangely soft yet cavernous voice:

  ‘I am at a loss to understand why they are sending me north when I proved so useful to them here in the South during the riots last August that unleashed bloodshed and destruction on our good city. I took part in foiling the devilish plot of that depraved Franciscan, the execrable Bernard Délicieux.* Never was a name more ill suited. No, I honestly do not understand, unless they mean to honour me. Yet my instinct tells me the inverse is true.’

  With a willowy hand Nicolas raised the resolutely lowered chin of his victim.

  ‘What is your opinion, sweet brother?’ he repeated, fixing Bartolomeo’s eyes with his soft dark gaze.

  The novice’s throat was dry. He had prayed night and day for a miracle powerful enough to rid him of his tormentor, and now he dreaded the consequences. However much he reproached himself, repeated to himself ad nauseam that he had nothing to be afraid of, that the order for the transfer was signed by Cardinal Benedetti with no more mention of his name than of the true reason for the relocation, he remained uneasy. Nicolas and his insatiable desire for power, his appetite for inflicting pain, everything about this excessively beautiful, cunning creature terrified him.

  The naive young Dominican had soon realised that faith was not the driving force behind his cell companion. For certain ambitious offspring of low birth, entry into the orders had always been a useful tool.

  Bartolomeo had gathered from Nicolas’s circumspect confessions that his father had been a lay illuminator to Charles d’Évreux, the Comte d’Étampes. Although as a child he showed little interest in the task of colouring and lettering, his lively mind had, with the aid of the Comte’s splendid library, soaked up a fair amount of knowledge. He had been pampered and spoiled by an ageing mother for whom this late gift of a child was compensation for the years of suspicion about her ability to conceive. Added to the poor woman’s humiliation was fear, for she exercised the profession of midwife to the ladies-in-waiting of Madame Marie d’Espagne, daughter of Ferdinand II and wife of the Comte.

  One day, when they were praying side by side, Nicolas had whispered in Bartolomeo’s ear in a voice that had made him tremble:

  ‘The world is ours if we know how to take it.’

  One night, as Bartolomeo lay sleeping in the cool darkness of their cell he thought he heard the words:

  ‘Flesh is not earned, and only the feeble-minded share it. Flesh should be taken, snatched.’

  Nicolas’s excesses had begun soon after he arrived in the town of the four mendicant convents,* which at the time boasted ten thousand inhabitants. Bartolomeo was convinced that they had contributed to the hatred the populace felt towards them and to their uprising against the royal and religious authorities.

  One particular memory wrung the young Dominican’s heart. That poor girl Raimonde, who was touched in the head, and claimed to be visited at night by spirits. Encouraged by Nicolas, who preyed on her like a cat preys on a mouse, she attempted to demonstrate her powers, which she professed came from the Virgin. She stubbornly repeated incantations she claimed were capable of piercing rats and field mice. Despite the fact that her efforts ended in failure, Nicolas managed to make her admit responsibility for the death of a neighbour carried off by a mysterious summer fever, as well as for some cows miscarrying. The young Inquisitor’s case was weak, and yet he proved her guilt, arguing that the Virgin could not transmit a lethal power, even one used only against harmful rodents. The devil alone could do that in exchange for a soul. The poor mad girl’s insides hung from the rack. Her suffering had been interminable. Nicolas stared with satisfaction at the blood flowing from her entrails into the underground chamber’s central drain, dug out for the purpose. Bartolomeo had fled the Viscount’s Palace, loathing himself for his cowardice.

  In reality, the young man was too rational to be able to turn a blind eye. He radiated faith, and love for his fellow man. He might have found the inner strength to rebel and even, why not, to defeat Nicolas. But a sort of evil curse of his own design prevented him. His excitement when Nicolas’s hand brushed against his arm. His unpardonable urge to justify what was simple debauchery and cruelty on the part of his cell companion. Bartolomeo loved Nicolas with a love that was anything but fraternal. He loved him and he hated him. He would gladly die and at the same time live for his next smile. Naturally, Bartolomeo was aware that monks practised sodomy, as they did concubinage. Not he. Not he who dreamt of angels as others dream of girls or finery.

  The beautiful demon must go, he must vanish for evermore.

  ‘I am talking to you, Bartolomeo. What do you think?’

  The novice mustered all his strength to reply in a steady voice:

  ‘I see in it only a sign of approval. Surely it is not a reprimand, much less a punishment.’

  ‘But you will miss me, will you not?’ Nicolas taunted him.

  ‘Yes …’

  He spoke the truth and it made him want to weep with rage, and sorrow too. The firm belief that his morbid fascination for Nicolas would be the only insurmountable ordeal he must endure devastated him.

  Clairets Forest and the Manoir de Souarcy-en-Perche, June 1304

  The brambles and the long grass still trapped the early-morning mist. It was as if the earth, jealous of the sky, had formed its own clouds. Gilbert used to be afraid of it. Everybody said it was the breath of spirits, some of whom were so resentful of their fate that they would lure you into their limbo. But his good fairy had told him that was just nonsense and stories to make little children do as they were told. Mist came from the forest floor when it was full of water and the heat made it rise. That was all. Gilbert had found this explanation very reassuring and had felt suddenly superior to all the fools taken in by a lot of tall tales. For his good fairy was always right.

  Gilbert chuckled with glee. His shoulder bag was already full to bursting with morels. The autumn rains and forest fires the previous year had been favourable. He would keep one large handful for himself to cook in the embers the way he liked. All the rest would go to his good fairy. For he was certain she was a fairy. One of those fairies who have grown accustomed to human ways and who make their lives more beautiful and sweet.

  With the underneath of his sleeve, he wiped away the saliva running down his chin. He was jubilant.

  She adored the morels he picked for her each spring. Oh! He could already imagine her feeling the weight of them in her beautiful pale hands and declaring:

  ‘Why, Gilbert, they look even bigger than last year’s crop! Where do you manage to find such marvels?’

  He wouldn’t tell her. And yet he was prepared to do anything to please her. But he was no fool; if he showed her his secret places for picking morels, ceps and chanterelles, he would have no more lovely gifts to bring her. And that would be sad because then she wouldn’t give h
im that happy smile any more. Just like the magnificent wild trout he caught with his bare hands in the icy waters of the river Huisne. Gilbert swelled with pride: only he knew where to find the tiny creeks that held the biggest fish. What is more, he took great pains when going there to make sure nobody was following him, looking back and listening out. If he stood still where the current was weakest he could almost pluck them from the water like fruit. Every Friday he brought a pair for his good fairy to brighten up her fast days.

  His mood changed abruptly, and he became sullen. Of course he would give his life for his good fairy. And yet he was so afraid of death since he had lain in bed with it for two days and three nights. He could have sworn that open-eyed death was staring at him even while he slept. It didn’t smell too bad though because of the cold. It was in winter; he forgot which year. A cruel winter when many people died, even at the manor, even the old chaplain and his good fairy’s maidservant, the one who was with child. He remembered that the Dame de Souarcy had allowed hunting on her land because he had caught some rabbits. At first, he had lain close to open-eyed death, hoping in vain for some warmth. He had been too young at the time to know that dead people suck up all the heat. When they, the others, finally noticed them, death and him, they dragged open-eyed death away and flung her on top of a pile of other bodies on a cart. One of the others had said:

  ‘What’ll we do with the idiot now the old woman’s gone? He’s just another mouth to feed. I think we should leave him at the edge of the forest to fend for himself.’

  A woman who was standing apart from the others protested as a matter of form:

  ‘It’s not Christian! He’s too young. He’ll perish in no time.’

  ‘He has no sense in his head so it’s not as bad as if it were one of us.’

  ‘I say it’s not Christian,’ the woman had insisted before walking away.

  The nine-year-old Gilbert had watched them, hardly understanding what they were scheming, only sensing that his chances of survival were waning as his quivering mother, sprawled on top of a pile of other corpses, was drawn away on a rattling ox-cart.

  Blanche, the tanner’s wife, renowned for her piety and good sense, had declared:

  ‘Mariette’s right. It isn’t Christian. He’s still a child.’

  ‘He’s a dirty little cat-killer,’ replied the man, who was in a hurry to despatch Gilbert to a better world, preferably one where he wouldn’t need feeding.

  True, he had skinned a couple of the neighbours’ cats. But it wasn’t as if they were dogs, and anyway it was so he could line his clogs with their pelts. It was wrong of him to be sure. It was wrong to harm the predators of the field mice that ravaged the grain stocks, except if they were black. He could kill any number of those, for safety, for they were liable to turn into hosts of the devil.

  Blanche had shot the man an angry look that had all but made him recoil. She replied in a sharp voice:

  ‘I think I shall bring the subject of our disaccord before our lady. I feel sure that she will see it my way.’

  The man had lowered his head. He, too, felt sure.

  And so it was. Agnès had ordered the simpleton to be brought before her, and had warned that anyone unjustly beating, harming or punishing the boy in any way would have her to answer to.

  Gilbert the simpleton had grown in size and strength under the protection of the manor, but his mind was still that of a child. Like a child he sought his good fairy’s affection, growing gentle and meek when she stroked his hair or spoke softly to him. And like a child a wild temper could flare up in him when he feared for his good fairy or for himself. His colossal strength had not only protected the Dame de Souarcy but had also discouraged any attempts on the part of the villagers to taunt or mistreat him.

  For some time, the one they so often called the idiot had been alerted by a strange premonition: the season of the beast was drawing near. It would soon be upon them. Occasionally, when night fell, Gilbert would be thrown into a panic, unable to imagine what form this beast would take. And yet he could feel it, he could smell it coming. His fear never left him and compelled him to remain by Clément’s side, even though he disliked the boy, envying him his privileged position close to Agnès. But Clément loved the good fairy, too, with a love that was true and pure, and the simpleton knew this. Clément had the brains which Gilbert lacked but in contrast possessed none of Gilbert’s extraordinary physical strength. Together they could become their lady’s knight in shining armour. Together they could fight off many dangers, perhaps even the beast itself.

  The troubled mood that had overtaken him a few minutes before gave way to a burst of renewed confidence. He would pick a few more morels and then gather the medicinal herbs his fairy had requested. He knew so many plants and herbs with miraculous powers. Some healed burns while others could kill an ox. The trouble was he didn’t know their names. He recognised them by their pleasant aroma or their nauseating stench, or by their flowers or the shape of their leaves. The previous winter, he had cured his lady’s cough with a few simple decoctions. As soon as he had picked enough he would go back. He was already feeling hungry.

  He knew exactly where to find a nice crop, just beyond that bit of undergrowth that looked so much bigger than last year. He lay on his belly beside the tangle of brambles and bindweed and slid his hand between the nasty thorns. What was that touching his fingers? It felt like cloth. What was it doing there in the middle of his good fairy’s mushrooms? The snarl of weeds was so dense that he couldn’t make out much, just a vague outline almost the size of a stag, except that stags didn’t wear clothes. Gilbert pulled his sleeves down to protect his hands and tugged at the wild brambles until he had cleared a sort of tunnel through which he was able to crawl towards the shape.

  Closed-eyed death. It wasn’t staring at him for there were no eyes – only two puffy slits. Inches from the soft mass that had once been a face, the simpleton was breathless with terror. He crawled backwards, twisting like a snake and whimpering, his mouth closed. Fear clouded the few brain cells he possessed. He tried to stand up, the thorns from the blackberry bush spiking the flesh on his shoulders, arms and legs.

  He ran like a madman towards the village, panting and clasping his bag of mushrooms to his belly. A single sentence kept racing through his head: the beast was here, the beast was upon them.

  The corpse, or what remained of it, lay on a plank resting on two trestles in the hay barn at the Manoir de Souarcy. Agnès had sent three farm hands with a cart to bring it back. Clément had taken advantage of the general commotion to go in and take a look undisturbed. It was true that the state it was in was hardly an enticement to onlookers.

  It was a man, in his thirties, fairly tall and well built. There was no sign of any tonsure to suggest he might be a friar. Clément did not trouble to go through the dead man’s pockets, certain that the farm hands would have filched anything of value he might have been carrying, and then scattered the rest to make it look as if a thief had arrived there first.

  The man had not been dead long, three or four days probably, judging by the state of the flesh that bore almost no signs of decomposition. In addition, the smell he gave off was still tolerable. On the other hand, it looked as though some animal had attacked him, unleashing itself on his face until it was unrecognisable, an exposed mass of mutilated flesh. Such a sustained attack by a carnivorous animal on one part of the body was inconceivable. The face is not the fleshiest part of the body – far from it. Predators and carrion feeders go for the buttocks, thighs, belly and arms, leaving the bony parts covered in skin or a thin layer of flesh for the insects or other small scroungers.

  Were his deductions the result of his previous encounter with the corpse in Clairets Forest, or of the science he had been devouring over the past few weeks? Doubtless both. In any event the corpse made no impression on Clément and he walked over to it unflinchingly.

  He lifted the tattered shirt hanging from the man’s chest with the tip of his forefin
ger in order to examine the abdomen. The greenish hue had not yet spread over the entire stomach, although blisters filled with foul-smelling gases – a sign of putrefaction – were beginning to appear on the skin, bearing out Clément’s first speculation as to the time of death. He walked around the table so that he was standing directly behind the man’s head. It looked as though a set of talons had ripped into his face, slashing his brow, cheeks and neck so savagely that even a close friend would have difficulty recognising him. He found one detail puzzling. How would an animal have gone about maiming its prey in this way? The direction of the wound was obvious from the way the slashes on the right cheek were neater by the nose and clogged with skin and flesh towards the ear. Examining the wounds on the left cheek, he noticed that the inverse was true. So this hypothetical creature must have lashed at one ear with its claws and ripped the flesh towards the nose and then done the opposite on the other side of the face. It couldn’t be the result of a single movement of the claws slashing from right to left because the nose was intact. Another detail caught his attention. He had read, in the introduction to a work by a renowned eleventh-century Iranian doctor called Avicenna, that wounds inflicted post mortem were easily identifiable. They neither bled nor showed signs of inflammation. Exactly like those the man presented. The bloodless edges of the elongated contusions ravaging the victim’s face cried out their truth to those who knew how to listen. The man had been attacked after he was dead.

  The sound of a man’s heavy gait accompanied by a lighter step, which Clément immediately recognised as Agnès’s, interrupted his reflections. He dived behind some bales of straw stacked at the far end of the barn.

  That man’s death was not the work of any animal. His wounds had been inflicted post mortem in order to conceal his identity or divert suspicion. As for his attacker, the boy would have sworn it was a beast of the two-legged variety that drank from a cup.