by Andrea Japp
‘No, indeed. You have described my own instinct. I too dread … I know not what.’
This was only half true. She had in some measure identified her fear: Eudes. And yet, like the nun, Agnès sensed something far more terrifying was secretly preparing to strike them and with great force.
Jeanne d’Amblin appeared to pause before deciding to speak:
‘I did not only come here today to see how you were, but also to … how should I say …? Well, we were wondering whether my Seigneur de Brineux had confided in you … some detail, anything that might help us to see more clearly, to have some idea, to console our Abbess, perhaps even to help her, to save other wretched victims?’
‘No, and to be very honest I had the impression that he, like us, is groping in the dark.’
Shortly after the Extern Sister had left, Agnès resolved to take her mind off things by going to see if Vigil had come back from his latest jaunt. He had the habit of disappearing for a day at a time but always returned to the pigeon-house in the evening to guard his females. She had not seen him the previous evening, and a vague concern for the cocky bird added to the dark mood that never left her. Some huntsmen were quick to take aim and had few scruples.
Vigil was neither in the pigeon-house nor perched on the rooftop of the manor. The angry and unexpected peck she received from one of his mates as she tried to stroke it seemed to her a bad omen.
Béthonvilliers Forest, near Authon-du-Perche, June 1304
In response to the pressure of his rider’s leg the magnificent stallion came to a halt, statuesque. His immaculate black coat gleamed with sweat. He breathed without a single tremor of his powerful neck muscles, aware that the archer on his back was flexing his Turkish bow, made of two ox-horns joined by a metal spring.
The three-foot-long fletched arrow whistled through the air. It would have continued its flight for a hundred yards or so had it not struck the target, whose wings spread out in shock and pain as it plummeted in a swirl of feathers towards the archer. The rider swiftly dismounted and stooped to pick up the bird. The arrow had run it through, piercing the breast and exiting behind the wing joint. The huntsman’s gloved hand paused an inch from the handsome pinkish-purple neck, now bloodied bright red. One of its sturdy feet was ringed; the other had a message attached. The huntsman pursed his lips in an expression of displeasure. He had shot a carrier pigeon – a superb animal whose loss the rightful owner would regret. What a fine haul! He would be obliged to compensate the lord or convent that owned the pigeon, despite having shot it down on his own land. A second infuriating thought occurred to him: his eyesight was waning. He who had been capable of following a falcon during the hunt without ever losing sight of it would soon be unable to tell the difference between a pigeon and a common pheasant! The silent devastation wrought by age. He became more aware by the day of its undermining effect. He would soon be forty-three. True, he was still a long way from old age, having only just passed the forty-year threshold signalling the end of youth. And yet, his joints would grumble after a day spent in the saddle, and he no longer had the urge to sleep out in all weathers. If he were to believe The Four Ages of Man, the treatise written forty years before by a lord of Novara, he still had a few good years before he entered old age. Artus d’Authon slipped off his right glove and pinched the skin on the back of his hand. Weathered from decades spent outside and leathery from handling weapons, it had grown more slack and seemed to want to come away in places from the flesh underneath. As for his wrist, it had lost some of its musculature.
‘A pox on the years,’ he muttered between his teeth.
The years had passed so quickly and yet he had been so terribly bored throughout, one day running into the next so that in the end he was barely able to tell them apart.
Born under the reign of Louis IX, he had grown up during that of Philip III, the Bold, under whom his father served as supreme commander of the French armies for some years before dying prematurely. He was nine years old at the birth of Philip, who would later become the fourth monarch to bear that name. He had initiated the young future king into the art of hunting and handling a bow. The inflexibility, the severity of the man, who would later be given the sobriquet ‘the Fair’, were already apparent. Artus was convinced that he would make a good king if he received good counsel, but a king he would prefer to admire from afar. Thus he had declined the honour of taking up the onerous post filled by his father, which would have been conferred on him owing to his friendship with the monarch, but also because its bestowal had become almost hereditary. Artus had then ridden halfway around the world, fighting wherever fortune or his fervour took him until he reached the Holy Land. It had brought him some subtle surprises, a few furious rages and a fair share of wounds that flared up in stormy weather. He had defended causes with both his brain and his brawn, but none had convinced him sufficiently for him to embrace any one completely. He had returned to France without having experienced the hoped-for transformation and had sunk back into the repetitive tedium of every day seeming the same.
Thereafter, the running of his small county had taken up all his time. His father’s fascination with royal politics had led to its neglect, and it fell to Artus to put his house in order, to bring to heel, with more or less recourse to force, the lower nobility who were at each other’s throats over the systematic carving-up of land that was not theirs. Widowed at thirty-two, he had all but forgotten the features of his ghostly wife who had died bearing him a son. Little Gauzelin had inherited his mother’s frailty and, too weak to live, had died aged four. A father’s grief had turned into a destructive animal rage. He had stormed the castle for weeks on end, sending the servants scattering for cover like mice whenever they heard the madman approach. Two deaths. Two pointless deaths and no heir. Only a terrible loneliness and regret for what had not been.
He pulled himself together. If he let his thoughts go down that bitter path again, the day – yet another day – would be irrevocably ruined.
He picked up the pigeon and examined the ring, pausing before he removed the long arrow implanted in the still warm flesh. A capital S was followed by a small y. Souarcy. The animal was the property of the young widow, Eudes de Larnay’s half-sister, born of an adulterous liaison. He could not remember ever having met her, though Brineux had described her briefly and with a roguish glint in his eye.
*
A few days earlier, when his Chief Bailiff, Monge de Brineux, returned from his inquiries, Artus had asked him:
‘And what of the cornered doe you ran down?’
‘If she’s a cornered doe, then I’m a newly hatched gosling. The lady was not ruffled in the slightest by my visit – either that or she’s a brilliant actress. That woman is more like a lynx than a doe. She’s cautious, bold, clever and patient. She lures her prey into her territory by feigning sleep. As for the hunters, she plays with them, pretending to show herself while in reality protecting her young, covering her rear and preparing her escape.’
‘Do you believe she is involved in these murders?’
‘No, my Lord.’
‘You seem very sure.’
‘I can read men’s souls.’
‘Those of women are harder to decipher, my friend, especially,’ the Comte added with a half-smile, ‘when they are lynxes.’
‘Goodness me, yes! She was fearful but not because of any guilt. Her show of arrogance was intended to convince me of the contrary. In my opinion she has nothing to do with these murders. And so the question we must now ask is glaringly obvious: how did her handkerchief come to be in those bushes? Somebody placed it there, but who? With the aim of implicating her, but why? I have gathered some reliable information. She possesses no great fortune; on the contrary. Souarcy is nothing but a large farm and rather less splendid than most of those belonging to our wealthy farmers in and around Authon. Moreover, the manor and its land are part of her dower. She owns nothing in her own right. If as a widow she were to lose the usufruct of the property,
it would revert to her half-brother, until her only child, Mathilde, Hugues de Souarcy’s heir, comes of age. Having said this, the property in question would hardly be enough to attract the wealthy Eudes de Larnay, even though he scatters his fortune and that of his wife to the four winds.’
Eudes de Larnay. The mere thought of his vassal’s name put Artus in a bad mood again. Eudes the rat. Beneath his bulky physique and his virile, seductive exterior he was a coward and a vile scavenger. Any man who beat the women he bedded was not worthy of being called a man. This at least was the wretched reputation of the feudal Baron as it had reached Artus’s ears.
He paused for a moment, stroking with his forefinger the tiny roll of paper wrapped round the dead bird’s leg. No. This message had been sent by the Dame de Souarcy or was intended for her, and it would be unseemly of him to read it without her permission.
‘Let us go and take a look for ourselves, Ogier, my beauty,’ he declared to the destrier, who pricked up his ears on hearing his name.
Artus d’Authon pulled out the arrow and made himself look at the blood that dripped from it. He remounted and gently squeezed the flanks of his horse, who took off towards the north. After all, it was as good a way as any to end a new day and he had to confess that Monge had excited his curiosity.
The Comte did not entirely trust his Bailiff’s enraptured description of the lady. Brineux felt a mixture of affection and admiration towards women, which his marriage to a very quick-witted mischievous member of the burgher class from Alençon had done nothing to allay. Julienne might not have been the most beautiful girl in Perche, despite her pretty face and attractive figure, but she was incontestably the most entertaining, and had made him and Monge laugh many times with her gift for mimicry that bordered on genius. The way she impersonated Comte Artus right under his nose, frowning solemnly and lowering her pensive brow, crossing her hands behind her back and stooping as she walked, as though embarrassed by her great height, had the man himself in stitches, but he would never have accepted this playful mockery from any other.
It was a three-hour ride to Souarcy – a little less if he kept up a good pace. Madame de Souarcy could not refuse her liege lord lodging for the night, should he require it. As soon as he had satisfied his curiosity he would return home.
Manoir de Souarcy-en-Perche, June 1304
A farm hand, overcome by panic on hearing his name, had spluttered directions to the forest where he would find the lady of the manor.
Ogier walked at a slow pace, sensing his rider’s hesitancy in the slackening of the reins and the bit.
‘It’s not too late to turn back,’ Artus d’Authon muttered, as though seeking his horse’s approval. ‘What a ridiculous fool to have come here at all. No matter. We shall finish what we have begun, so be it!’
Ogier lengthened his step.
A good thirty yards away, a blanket of smoke caught his attention. Two men, one tall and heavily built, the other slender, were gesticulating in its midst. Two serfs, judging from their short tunics, tied at the waist with a wide leather strap, and their thick linen breeches. The two men both wore gloves and a peculiar bonnet on their heads with a fine veil bunched at the neck.
Artus was alerted by his horse’s sudden jumpiness. Why was a swarm of wild bees coming towards them? Hives. The two serfs were smoking out hives. He pulled up short and made Ogier walk back a few paces before dismounting and continuing alone on foot.
He was only a few yards from the two servants, yet they were seemingly so absorbed in their task that they did not notice his arrival. No doubt the strange protective garb they wore made it difficult to hear.
‘Hey there!’ he cried, alerting them to his presence while driving away the surrounding bees with a gloved hand.
The slender figure turned a veiled head towards him and a youthful, boyish voice spoke in a brusque tone that surprised the Comte:
‘Stand back, Monsieur, they are angry.’
‘Are they defending their honey?’
‘No, their king, and with a ferocity and self-sacrifice that would be the envy of many a soldier,’ replied the sharp voice.
‘Stand back, I tell you. Their sting is fierce.’
Artus obeyed. This was no boy but a woman, and a very comely one at that, in spite of her outlandish costume. So Agnès de Souarcy had of necessity become a beekeeper. Monge de Brineux was right, the lynx was brave, for those bees when they attacked could prove lethal.
A good ten minutes elapsed, during which he did not take his eyes off her, studying each of her precise, agile movements, admiring how calm she stayed in order not to alarm the bees, listening to the patient way she instructed her farm hand, who towered above her like a giant. Artus felt half amused, half embarrassed. It would doubtless grieve her to be caught wearing breeches, though these were certainly far better suited to collecting honey than a robe. Even so, the wearing of men’s clothes by women, for any reason, was strongly censured, although the doughty Eleanor of Aquitaine had done so in her day.
At last it appeared the two beekeepers had finished with the hives. They made their way towards him, the farm hand carefully carrying two pails brimming with the amber crop while the Dame de Souarcy loosened her protective veil, revealing two strawberry-blonde braids, which unfurled on either side of her pretty head.
As she walked up she addressed him blandly: ‘They will calm down now and rejoin their king.’ Then her tone changed suddenly, became scathing. ‘You surprised me wearing unsightly and improper clothing, Monsieur. It would surely have been more appropriate for you to have sent one of my servants to announce your arrival and to have waited until I returned to the manor.’
He had seldom seen a woman so completely beautiful right up to her high, pale brow with the hairline set slightly back, according to the fashion of the time. He opened his mouth to utter the apology he had prepared but she cut across him:
‘Souarcy is only a farm, I’ll grant you. However, I insist on a modicum of good manners and couth behaviour! Your name, Monsieur?’
Good gracious, the woman’s temper was beginning to unsettle him, and he a warrior and huntsman and one of the most redoubtable swordsmen in the kingdom of France. In truth he was quite unaccustomed to being snapped at like this. He recovered his poise and declared in a calm voice:
‘Artus, Comte d’Authon, Seigneur de Masle, Béthonvilliers, Luigny, Thiron and Bonnetable, at your service, Madame.’
A shiver ran down Agnès’s spine. The one man she ought never to have snubbed, much less offended. Admittedly, she had always doubted he would intervene on her behalf, and yet this powerful figure in the shadows had become like a magic spell she could never invoke for fear it might not work. Her inaccessible lucky charm. Indeed, this was the main reason why she had always refused to call upon him or his justice. If, as she feared, he were to turn her away, then she would be completely helpless, alone against Eudes and no longer able to delude herself into believing that some miracle might save her. And yet now more than ever she needed to believe it.
She closed her eyes and breathed a sigh, her face white as a sheet.
‘Are you unwell, Madame?’ he enquired, concerned, and offered her his hand.
‘It is nothing, just the heat and my fatigue.’ She collected herself and continued, ‘And the Seigneur de Souarcy. You forgot Souarcy.’
‘Souarcy is under the protection of Baron de Larnay, Madame.’
‘And he is your vassal.’
‘Indeed.’
Agnès gave a polite if belated curtsey encumbered by her peasant’s outfit.
‘You are right to mention it Madame; I have behaved like an oaf … Are you finished with the bees?’
‘Gilbert will see that they return to the hives. They like him. He is a gentle good soul. Would you be so kind, Gilbert?’
‘Oh yes, my good lady, I shall fetch the honey and the wax, too, don’t you worry.’
‘You look weary, Madame. Pray let Ogier take you back to the manor. Allow me.
’
He stooped, clasping his fingers to make a foothold for her. She was dainty and lithe, and mounted with a natural ease, sitting astride the saddle. Despite the inappropriateness of this position for a lady he found her fascinating. She was undaunted by his destrier, which was an awkward animal with anyone but its master. She sat admirably well on the huge black stallion, and horse and rider made an astonishingly handsome pair. Artus was beginning to think Monge had been right. He was reluctant now to mention the pigeon he had killed earlier, afraid of spoiling this singular moment.
Too soon for his liking, for he had been savouring their silent walk, they reached the courtyard of the manor. Agnès did not wait for his helping hand but slid from the saddle down Ogier’s motionless flank.
Mabile had come running and the pale look on her face convinced Agnès that she was right in believing this man a godsend. The girl gave a deep curtsey. So she had already seen him at her master’s residence.
‘Pray excuse me, Monsieur, while I change. Mabile will fetch you some refreshments and a bowl of fresh fruit.’
‘I have something to show you, Madame,’ he began in a faltering voice, tapping the leather game bag that was attached to his saddle, ‘something I regret with all my heart.’
‘Some wild game?’
‘A terrible blunder.’
He pulled out the pigeon, stiff now, its silky throat stained with a layer of dried blood.
‘Vigil …’
‘He is yours, then.’
‘Indeed,’ Agnès murmured, fighting back the tears that veiled her eyes.
‘Madame, I am truly regretful. He was flying through one of my forests, I took aim and …’
Mabile made a mad rush for the animal, crying:
