The Lady Agnes Mystery, Volume 1

by Andrea Japp

  ‘I’ll take him, Madame, don’t …’

  ‘Stop!’

  The order resounded. Agnès had seen the message round the animal’s leg.

  ‘Leave it. I will deal with it.’

  The girl retreated under Comte d’Authon’s baffled gaze. Agnès understood from her darting eyes and trembling lip that she was the author of the message, but she managed to keep her composure.

  Her lucky charm. This man had already made a small miracle happen, for she was certain the message was addressed to Eudes. Now she knew how the plotters communicated: thanks to the beautiful trained bird, a generous gift from her half-brother. Her sadness at Vigil’s loss quickly faded and she turned, smiling, to face the person who had no notion of the enormity of the good turn he had just done her.

  ‘I am … an oaf. Pray believe me, Madame. I mistook it for a small pheasant. It was flying quite high and …’

  ‘Do not mention it, Monsieur. Your blunder saddens me for I was fond of the bird, but … not everyone would have shown your consideration by returning the animal to me. Pray excuse me a few moments. I shall rejoin you shortly.’

  She clutched Vigil and went up to her chamber. Before entering she called out from the bottom of the rickety ladder.

  ‘Clément! I need your help.’

  ‘I’m coming, Madame.’

  She heard a quiet patter of feet and a face peered through the trapdoor opening.

  ‘Vigil!’

  ‘Yes. Come down. He’s carrying a message.’

  ‘So he was their messenger!’

  ‘The huntsman is no other than Comte d’Authon. He is waiting for me in the great hall. Hurry.’

  The child hurled himself down the ladder and joined her in her chamber. She briefly explained the unexpected encounter, which she dared not as yet consider a timely one. He listened with a smile on his lips that was betrayed by the gravity in his blue-green eyes.

  ‘Change out of your clothes, Madame. I will remove the message from the bird’s leg.’

  Agnès paused. She had only a few minutes left in which to dress. What should she wear? Not the ceremonial robe she had fashioned from the sumptuous piece of silk Eudes had given her. Finery was not sufficient to charm this man. And charm him she must, her life depended on it. It was something at which she excelled and yet today she felt hindered by an unusual apprehensiveness.

  ‘It is written in code, Madame. Each number stands for a letter, except for these Roman numerals – they probably represent real numbers. It doesn’t need a genius to work out what they stand for: XXVIII – XII – MCCXCIV: 1294, the date of my birth. Mabile was sending him the information she found in the chapel register. The message might contain other clues that throw light on their plan.’

  She turned towards Clément, who, out of a sense of modesty, was looking in the other direction over at the narrow window in the stone wall of her closet.

  ‘Will you be able to decipher its secrets? You must, Clément.’

  ‘I shall do my utmost. It is common to use a reference book and the few there are at Souarcy would mostly be inaccessible to the servants. My first choice would be the translation into French of the psalter you gave them. My only worry is that the two plotters might have been cleverer than we supposed. You see, the accomplices agree on a page and then number all the letters on that page. The ingenuity consists in beginning a few letters or lines into the page instead of with the first letter of the first line. It makes the job of decoding far more laborious and time-consuming.’

  ‘Where did you obtain all this knowledge?’

  ‘From books, Madame – they contain many marvels.’

  ‘Indeed, but they are difficult to come by, and I was unaware that our modest library possessed so many treasures.’

  ‘May I leave you to finish dressing, Madame?’

  ‘You may, but do not vanish as is your custom.’

  ‘Not tonight, Madame. I shall be watching over you.’

  She stifled a smile. And yet what would she do without him, without his vigilance and his intelligence, which she saw new facets of every day?

  Before leaving the room he whirled round and said in a hushed voice:

  ‘And what type of game do you think this one is, Madame? A stag?’

  ‘He is certainly strong and noble enough, but no, he possesses far more cunning. The stag runs until he hears the sound of the mort and then bravely but foolishly turns before charging. This one weighs up, thinks ahead. He knows when to renounce strategy in favour of strength, never the other way round. No. Not a stag, a fox, perhaps.’

  ‘Hmm … A worthy animal, though almost impossible to tame.’

  He closed behind him the heavy, studded door.

  The pale-grey robe she wore for mass would do perfectly. She covered her braids with a long fine veil fixed at her crown by a small darker-grey turban. The fluid contours of the robe enhanced her graceful figure and made her look taller, which was acceptable given the height of her guest. She had matched the elegant austerity of her clothes to her perception of him. She chewed a pinch of épices de chambre to scent her breath, and put a drop of the belladonna Eudes had brought from Italy the year before in the corner of her eye. She had used the contents of the little phial studded with grey pearls and miniature turquoises but once, to see the effect it had. The eyes seemed to dissolve, becoming strangely deeper, like two languid pools.

  Agnès walked back via the kitchens where she knew she would find Mathilde. The little girl was greedily watching Adeline and Mabile prepare the food.

  ‘My lady daughter, the Comte d’Authon, an important man, has honoured us with his presence. I would like you to make an excellent impression, and then to take your leave without needing to be asked.’

  ‘The Comte d’Authon here, Madame?’

  ‘Indeed, it is no small surprise.’

  ‘But … my dress is old and ugly and …’

  ‘It is perfect. Besides, neither of our dresses could compete with those of the ladies in our lord’s entourage, and so we must content ourselves with being dignified, which is a woman’s best finery. Go and comb your hair and come back down at once.’

  When Agnès rejoined the Comte in the great hall, he was sitting on one of the sideboards playing with the dogs.

  ‘Fine beasts, Madame.’

  ‘They are fearsome guard dogs … Or at least they were until your arrival.’

  He smiled at the mild compliment and replied:

  ‘Animals seem to warm to me. No doubt it is on account of my good manners.’

  She offered no apology for her earlier rebuke. It would be a mistake, for he would instantly detect her servility. The simple fawning she used so abundantly with Eudes would never work on this man. On the contrary, it would almost certainly repulse him.

  A moment later, Mathilde made her entrance as agreed. She was struggling to catch her breath from running, but walked with a calm, measured step towards her liege lord.

  ‘Monsieur,’ she began, curtseying gracefully, ‘your presence within our walls is a rare pleasure indeed. And the honour you confer upon us brightens our humble dwelling.’

  He went over to her, suppressing a good-natured chuckle.

  ‘You are utterly charming, Mademoiselle. As for pleasures and honours, believe me, they are all mine. Had I known that two of the most precious pearls in Perche lodged here at the manor, I should not have delayed so long in coming. It is an unforgivable oversight on my part.’

  The little girl’s face flushed with joy at the immense flattery, and she took her leave, curtseying again.

  ‘Your daughter is delightful, Madame. How old is she?’

  ‘She is twelve. I try to teach her refinement. I hope she may enjoy a more … a more sumptuous life than the running of Souarcy.’

  ‘To which you have nonetheless devoted yourself.’

  ‘Mathilde was not born between two beds in the servants’ quarters, albeit the servant in question was a lady’s maid.’

&nb
sp; Artus knew of the Dame de Souarcy’s illegitimate birth. It disconcerted him that she would flaunt it until he realised that by making light of it she was defending herself against gossip or, worse still, ridicule. She really was a fine lynx. And she pleased him greatly.

  The dinner began on a note of delightful banter, notwith-standing the miserable expression Mabile wore as she served the cretonnée of new peas, freshly picked; the creamy soup thickened with egg yolk beaten in warm milk looked appetising.

  Artus perceived that the lady was cultured, lively and intelligent and had a facility for repartee rare in a woman of her social standing.

  When he complimented her on her composure earlier in the middle of a swarm of unfriendly bees, she told him of her first harvest with a playful look:

  ‘… A column of bees was coming towards me. I shrieked and in a moment of foolish panic threw the pail of honey at them, half believing that if I gave it back they would leave me alone. Nay! I was obliged to hitch up my dress and run as fast as my legs would carry me back to the manor. You should have seen me in my crooked turban with my veil half torn off. I even lost a shoe. One of the fierce sentinels flew under my skirts and stung me – well, above my knee, and hence the breeches. In short, I made an utter fool of myself. Thankfully Gilbert was the only witness to my pitiable retreat. He bravely drove back the bees, thrashing his arms in the air like an angry goose to protect me. He came back covered in swellings and running a temperature.’

  Artus burst out laughing as he pictured the scene. How long since he had laughed like that and, above all, in the company of a woman?

  His mind grew troubled by a memory. The small frightened face of the frail young woman he had married when he was nearing his thirtieth birthday. Madeleine, the only child of the d’Omoy family, was eighteen, a perfectly decent age for becoming a wife and mother. And yet she still played with dolls. Her weeping mother and her father, who would have gladly continued treating her as a child for a few more years if he had not needed to secure a commercial transaction with the Comte, agreed to her marriage to Artus. Normandy and its ports, which supplied large areas of the hinterland via an extensive network of waterways, was vital to the flourishing of Artus d’Authon’s commerce, all the more so since the region was equally rich in iron ore. As for Huchald d’Omoy, an impoverished yet distinguished nobleman, the Comte d’Authon’s gold would allow him to regild the family crest, tarnished following a series of ruinous investments. The young Madeleine d’Omoy sealed their contract. Anyone might have thought she had been abducted by a barbarian. For her their marriage began as a betrayal then turned into an ordeal when she realised that the physical distance separating her from her parents meant she would rarely see them. Artus could picture her now languishing in the room she almost never left, sitting on a chair under one of the arrow slits staring up at the sky, watching out for he knew not what. If he enquired, she would invariably turn her ashen face towards him, forcing a smile, and reply:

  ‘The birds, Monsieur.’

  ‘You would glimpse them more easily from the garden. It is warm outside, Madame.’

  ‘No doubt it is, Monsieur, but I am cold.’ She stayed where she was.

  His visits to his wife’s bedroom became more infrequent. He felt unwelcome there, and had it not been for his need of an heir he would doubtless have ceased inconveniencing Madeleine with his presence. He had never felt any desire for her. That skinny angular body, which he hardly dared touch for fear it might break, inspired a sort of pity in him that had gradually become mingled with repulsion.

  The birth had been a nightmare. For hours on end he had listened to her groans from the lobby of her chamber. Immediately after the delivery she had nearly succumbed to a haemorrhage that all but drained her weak blood. Despite the attentions she received from the physic and the midwife, which appeared partially to revive her, she doubtless had little will to live and three weeks after Gauzelin’s birth, without a last word or even a gesture, her frail existence was snuffed out like a candle.

  He surprised himself casting furtive glances at Agnès. She was strikingly beautiful and graced her speech with elegant gestures. Underneath all this refinement he was sure she possessed a rare strength of mind. Hugues de Souarcy had been a fortunate man when he married her at Robert de Larnay’s request – she much less so. Not that Hugues was a bad man – on the contrary – but he was a coarse man whose rough edges had hardly been refined by wars and the tireless frequenting of taverns. Moreover, he was already quite advanced in years when they married. How old had she been then, thirteen, fourteen perhaps?

  They talked of this and that, making each other laugh and jumping from one subject to another in an atmosphere of humorous repartee. She paused, concluding:

  ‘With their Roman de la Rose* Messieurs de Lorris and de Meung left me, how should I say … disappointed. The beginning and the end were so different. I found parts of the first story conventional, not to say over-indulgent, while the second, the satire on “feminine etiquette” by Ami et la Vieille, grated on my nerves.’

  ‘The second author was a Parisian scholar and not always successful in avoiding the pitfalls of his education – which he was fond of parading – or of his milieu, or indeed those of farce itself.’

  ‘In contrast, I confess to being extremely partial to the ballads and fables of Madame Marie de France.* What wisdom, what finesse! The way she makes the animals speak as though they were humans.’

  Artus could not resist seizing the opportunity.

  ‘I, too, admire the lady’s finesse and use of language. And what did you think of the poem entitled Yonec?’

  Agnès immediately understood the reference. In that enchanting poem – the pretext for a discourse on true love – a woman who has married against her will prays to heaven to send her a sweet lover. Her wish is granted and the lover arrives in the form of a bird which turns into a prince.

  She took her time responding, lowering her gaze towards the snail, herb and onion pâté which, enthralled as she was by their conversation, she had hardly tasted. He reproached himself for her silence:

  ‘The term uncouth would seem perfectly suited to me this evening. Pray forgive my tasteless question, Madame.’

  ‘Why, Monsieur? Indeed, my Seigneur Hugues was not the husband of a young girl’s dreams, but he was courteous and respectful towards his wife. Besides, I did not dream. Dreams were a luxury I was scarcely permitted.’

  ‘More’s the pity, Madame.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  The acute sadness his idiotic question had caused the young woman wounded him.

  ‘I feel I have behaved like an insensitive oaf.’

  ‘No, for, with all due respect, I would not have allowed that. Hugues was my life raft – I believe that is the name sailors give it, and he was no less dependable. I was thirteen years of age. My mother had left this world when I was still a child and as for the Baroness, God rest her good soul, she was more interested in astronomy than matchmaking. In brief, I knew nothing of the role of wife … nothing of the duties involved.’

  ‘Some of which can be pleasurable.’

  ‘So I believe. In any event, Hugues never lost his patience with me. His only failing in my eyes was that he allowed Souarcy to go to rack and ruin. He was no farmer, even less an administrator, he was a soldier. Most of the land had turned into a wilderness and parts of it had become barren.’

  ‘Why did you not seek your brother’s protection after your husband’s death? Life at Larnay would surely have been less arduous for a young widow and her child.’

  Agnès’s face froze, and her pursed lips spoke louder than any words. He quickly changed the subject. Now he knew the answer to the question he had been asking himself all evening.

  ‘The snail pâté is divine.’

  He sensed the effort she needed to make in order to return to polite conversation and he was overcome by a strange tenderness.

  ‘Is it not? The little animals are very partial to the bab
y lettuce we grow here. It gives them a sweet flavour, which we bring out with sautéed onion. And what they don’t eat we use in soups or salads.’

  Next, Mabile served roast rack of wild boar in a glistening sauce made of verjuice, wine, ginger, cinnamon and clove, served with broad bean purée and stewed apple. As soon as the servant had returned to the kitchen Artus declared:

  ‘That girl is peculiar.’

  She is afraid I might find out the meaning of the message Vigil was carrying, that is why she is peculiar, thought Agnès. She fixed the Comte’s dark eyes with her grey-blue gaze and said:

  ‘A gift from my half-brother Eudes.’

  It was clear to him from her voice that it was one she would have gladly refused and that she mistrusted the girl.

  The dinner continued. Agnès put the conversation back on a pleasant light-hearted footing. Their amusing exchanges were once again punctuated by repartee, learned observations and poetic quotations. Not that the Comte’s earlier seriousness had annoyed the lady; on the contrary it had allowed her to let him glimpse the aversion she felt for her half-brother. She had said nothing to compromise herself, and if the Comte were on friendly terms with Eudes, she could always maintain that he had misinterpreted her mood. The cause would once again be attributed to the fickle nature of women’s disposition.

  Having achieved her aim of gratifying him with her company and her conversation, Agnès now studied him properly for the first time. He towered above her by a head and a half, though she was tall for a woman. He had dark hair and dark eyes – rare in a region where men tended to have light-chestnut or blond hair and blue eyes. He wore his hair shoulder-length, as was the fashion among the powerful. It was wavy and flecked with grey. He had a good, straight nose, and a chin that revealed authority, and intolerance, too. He moved with rare elegance for a man with such a muscular build. His brow was deeply furrowed, weathered from years of riding. A fine specimen indeed.

  ‘You are examining me, Madame,’ a deep voice said, not without a hint of satisfaction.

  Agnès’s cheeks flushed and she dissembled: