The Lady Agnes Mystery, Volume 1

by Andrea Japp

  An image flashed through his mind. His mother enamoured of her only son. She had been so clever at delivering the offspring of Madame d’Espagne’s ladies-in-waiting, and yet so foolish. What had become of her after he left? What did it matter? And his father, that timid scholar and lover of pretty historiated vignettes35 and initial letters36 ornamented with tracery,37 his fingers stained with brightly coloured inks and powdered gold. He would mix cuttlefish and oak gall with egg white and powdered clove,38 failing to remember that the Comte for whom he was ruining his eyesight preferred war and women’s bellies to manuscripts. Lackeys! That was all they both were. Nicolas’s perfect features, as well as his talent for duplicity, had earned him the favours of many ladies and a few lords. His intelligence would soon place him high above them all. No one could stop him and he would no longer need to grovel to anyone. Even the great lords of the realm trembled before the Inquisition. Only one master, the Pope, and he was far away.

  The power of terror. He already enjoyed it and would exploit it to the full.

  The tidy recompense torture brought – the death he could mete out as he saw fit. It was so easy to accuse someone of heresy or possession. So easy to force someone to confess to crimes he, Nicolas, had invented. There was no need even for an executioner, he dispensed with them and completed the job himself. A few moments in the interrogation chamber with him. Nothing more. Nicolas had confirmed it again and again. If the accused was wealthy, an agreement could be reached. If not, he died, and his terror, his pain were compensation for Nicolas. In both cases he won. The thought made him sigh with pleasure.

  What a perfect model, that Robert le Bougre. A tidal wave of screams, blood, strewn viscera, crushed feet, put-out eyes, torn flesh. Fifty deaths in a few months – victims of his brief stays at Châlons-sur-Marne, Péronne, Douai and Lille. The great pyre of Saint-Aimé: a hundred and eighty-three ‘pure’, or so they claimed, Cathars burnt to cinders in a few hours.

  Poor tiresome Bartolomeo. He would never experience greatness – even less the joy it procures.

  He must now devote himself to the matter of Agnès de Souarcy, recently brought before him together with a first handsome payment. He would receive the second after her disgrace. Why not her death? But the Baron who had sought his services had insisted the young widow must not die, either on the rack or at the stake. And as far as torture was concerned he was to be as restrained as possible; the more ‘benevolent’ nature of the abuse inflicted on women compared to men made this possible.39 This was all Nicolas needed in order to understand that he was dealing with an incestuous lover seeking retribution – one, moreover, who had been spurned.

  A woman, a lady, how pleasurable. How stirring they were when they squirmed with terror! Especially this one, whom he had heard tell was ravishingly beautiful.

  What a disappointment! No matter. After all, he had been handsomely rewarded. Some other brainless victim would serve to vent his frustration. There was no lack of people falsely accused.

  The evidence the Baron had provided as justification for an inquisitorial examination was a little unclear and so Nicolas had decided to furnish his own. Heresy was the most suitable charge. He knew all the necessary ruses for these trials. None of the accused, even those who were innocent as newborn lambs, escaped his clutches.

  He stretched his arms out contentedly and fell back in his chair, closing his eyes, and then, sensing another presence, instinctively opened them again.

  The figure, wrapped in a brown cloak of coarse wool with a cowl drawn over its eyes, was standing motionless in front of him. He had heard no one enter his study. Nicolas’s good humour was eclipsed by a sudden rage. Who dared to enter unannounced? Who had the gall to disregard his importance and his position in this way?

  He rose, and was about to scold the intruder when a gloved hand emerged from a sleeve and handed him a small scroll of paper.

  He was overcome by a series of conflicting emotions as he read the contents: astonishment, fear, avidity and finally intense joy.

  The figure waited in silence.

  ‘What am I to think of this?’ murmured Nicolas, his voice trembling with delight.

  A deep voice, disguised by the thick cowl concealing the face, said tersely:

  ‘She must die. Three hundred pounds in exchange for a life, it is more than enough.’

  Nicolas was tempted by the idea of a little blackmail in order to raise the fee:

  ‘Only …’

  ‘Three hundred pounds or your life, decide quickly.’

  The coldness in the voice of the person standing before him convinced him the threat was real.

  ‘Madame de Souarcy will die.’

  ‘You are a sensible man. You will stay at Clairets Abbey during the period of grace. Thus you will be closer to your new … toy. No order is rich or powerful enough to oppose the actions of a Grand Inquisitor and the good nuns will do as they are told. Thus you will find yourself only a few leagues away from your prey, the sweet Agnès.’

  Château d’Authon-du-Perche, July 1304

  The news of Apolline de Larnay’s death during childbirth did not surprise Artus d’Authon, although he was more affected by it than he had imagined he would be. Death was already visible in the grey woman’s eyes when he last saw her. And in her belly. The newborn baby, another girl, had outlived her mother by only a few hours. No one expected their loss to upset the feudal Baron unduly.

  The death of this creature, whom he had once despised, stirred in him a strange sadness, the sadness of senseless waste.

  He surprised himself contemplating Apolline’s life. She was one of those women who live only through their desire to be loved by the one they love. Eudes was neither her beloved nor had he ever loved her. And so she had remained locked inside herself, observing the passing of the years, emerging only on rare occasions – as when he had visited her two weeks before.

  What on earth was the matter with him? Why did everything seem so painful to him of late? After the devastation caused by the death of his son, he had managed to make a life for himself that was relatively dull yet almost devoid of pain. True, he had never been one of those cheerful light-hearted fellows who are well liked in society. And yet since Gauzelin’s death nothing had come near to hurting him. So what was happening to him now? Why did Madame Apolline’s unjust end affect him so much? Countless women died in childbirth. He had discovered in himself recently an edginess and sensitivity he was unaware he possessed.

  That woman … A smile appeared on his lips for the first time that bleak day, which had been heralded by one equally gloomy. He urged himself to think clearly – it would save time. He admitted that he had not stopped thinking about her since he left Souarcy. He was visited by images of her at night or in the middle of a meeting with his tenant farmers or during a hunt – causing him to miss his mark. When he calculated the difference between their ages, he was shocked to discover that he was nearly twenty years her senior, and yet her deceased husband had been more than thirty years older than her. And besides, a man’s age was of little consequence since his role was to provide for, honour and protect in exchange for love, obedience and a fecundity that would last his lifetime. Yes, but she was a widow, and the status of a widowed noblewoman with a child was without question one of the most favourable any lady could enjoy. If she possessed no fortune of her own, at least she would enjoy a dower, since it was unthinkable that a woman who had fulfilled her duties as both wife and mother could be left to fend for herself. Without a father or husband such a woman became mistress of her own destiny. This fortuitous status explained why many a noblewomen or burgher had no wish to remarry. Did Agnès de Souarcy subscribe to this way of thinking? He had no way of knowing. And anyway, who was to say she found him attractive or even simply agreeable?

  After he had finished posing these troubling and unanswerable questions a black mood replaced the nervousness that was preventing him from finding any peace.

  He brought his fist down on the
table, almost upsetting the ink pot in the shape of a ship’s hull.

  A strumpet was what he needed. Attractive and glad to accept the money he offered her. A girl who would provoke no interest in him. A moment of paid pleasure, meaningless and unmemorable. He had already grown tired of the idea before taking it any further. He did not want a girl.

  The announcement of Monge de Brineux interrupted his troubled thoughts.

  ‘We have made some progress regarding the fifth and last victim.’

  ‘Have you determined his identity?’

  ‘Not as yet. However, he must have died a terrible death.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘He almost certainly died from internal bleeding.’

  ‘What proof have you?’

  ‘The inside of his mouth was full of very fine cuts.40 In my opinion the victim was given food containing crushed glass. By the time he realised, it was too late. The poor devil bled to death internally.’

  ‘It is a method they use to kill wild animals in some countries. A truly terrible way to die. What of the other victims? Have you made any progress?’

  ‘It is very slow. I sought the advice of a medical theologian at the Sorbonne.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘An awful lot of science and very little assistance.’

  ‘I see. And what was his opinion?’

  ‘Only that the victims died violently.’

  ‘An inspired conclusion! He has solved the mystery for us!’ said Artus sardonically. ‘You would have done as well to seek the advice of my doctor, Joseph.’

  ‘The problem with those people is that they never leave their amphitheatres, and they keep as far away as possible from their patients, or the corpses they are entrusted with, for fear of being contaminated. They are content to learn by rote and trot out what others discovered over a thousand years ago. They can quote Latin at you until your head is spinning, but if it is treatment you want for a boil or a corn on your foot …’

  ‘We shall reach the bottom of this, Brineux, I assure you.’

  ‘Yes, but when? How? At least four of the victims were friars. One was an emissary of our Holy Father Benoît XI who has just died, poisoned. This affair, which might have remained a local act of villainy, is taking on the proportions of a political incident. We must make progress, and quickly.’

  For several days now Artus had feared this. The last thing the delicate situation between the French monarchy and the papacy needed was a papal emissary discovered burnt to death without any trace of fire.

  Clairets Abbey, Perche, July 1304

  Éleusie de Beaufort listened calmly to the young Dominican who had been announced earlier. The Extern Sister, Jeanne d’Amblin, her usually beaming face wearing an ominous expression of solemnity, had brought him to her study.

  In common with her, Jeanne d’Amblin, Yolande de Fleury, Annelette Beaupré, the apothecary nun, and, in particular, Hedwige du Thilay, the treasurer nun,41 whose uncle by marriage had perished in the slaughter at Carcassonne, were sufficiently intelligent women to be able to articulate, on occasion and in veiled terms, their disapproval of Rome’s chosen methods for defending the purity of the faith. Doubtless others shared their reservations – Adélaïde or even Blanche de Blinot during her moments of lucidity – but they were more reticent. Éleusie found herself regretting, however, that the majority of her girls did not.

  Indeed, despite her unquestioning faith and her obedience, the alarming evolution of the Inquisition upset the Abbess. Saving the souls of those who have strayed so that they might rejoin God’s flock was of the utmost importance, and yet it remained inconceivable to her that friars should resort to torture and death in the name of Christ’s love and tolerance. Naturally, they had no blood on their hands since those condemned were surrendered to the secular authorities for them to carry out the death sentence; but this expedient hypocrisy did not reassure her, especially now that a certain number of Grand Inquisitors presided over the torture sessions.

  She recalled the courageous, nearly century-old warning Hilaire de Poitiers had given upon meeting Auxence de Milan:

  I ask you who would call yourselves bishops: how did the Apostles ensure the purity of the Gospels? What powers did they depend upon in order to spread Christ’s teachings? … Alas, today … the Church uses imprisonment and exile to force people to believe what once they believed in the face of imprisonment and exile.

  Even so, these Dominicans and Franciscans had full powers and could exercise them over everybody, and that included her.

  How handsome and radiant he was, this Brother Nicolas Florin. The ease with which he had requested that the convent extend him its hospitality for a month pointed to an order beneath the polite formalities. Strangely, no sooner had he entered her study than the Abbess had been seized by an almost uncontrollable feeling of revulsion. This had surprised her – she who was always so distrustful of instinctive responses. And yet there was something about this young man, although she could not put her finger on what it was, which alarmed her.

  ‘You are compiling information for an inquiry, you say?’

  ‘That is correct, Abbess. I would normally be accompanied by two brothers, but the urgency …’

  ‘I do not believe I can recall a single case of heresy in Perche, my son.’

  ‘And what of sorcery and demonic possession, for I assume you must have had your share of succubi and incubi?’

  ‘Who has not?’

  He gave her an angelic smile, agreeing in a soft pained voice:

  ‘A sad but true admission. Doubtless you understand that I cannot reveal to you the identity of the person I am investigating. You also know that our methods are wholly compassionate and just. I will duly inform the person concerned of their month’s grace. If within this time they do not denounce themselves, their interrogation will commence. If, on the other hand, they confess to their sins, they will almost certainly be pardoned and their identity kept a secret in order to spare them the condemnation of their … neighbours.’

  He clasped his beautiful long hands together and prayed that Agnès would maintain her innocence. If what he had heard about her was true, there was every chance that she would. And, if not, then he was prepared. He would simply claim that she had retracted her confession, relapsed heretics being considered the worst kind. None escaped the flames. Agnès de Souarcy’s word counted for nothing against that of a Grand Inquisitor. The feudal Baron who merely wished to terrorise and disgrace his half-sister was in for a nasty surprise. Nicolas felt drunk on his own duplicity. He was powerful enough now to challenge and overrule the orders of a baron.

  ‘It requires at least two witnesses to bring an accusation,’ Éleusie de Beaufort insisted.

  ‘Oh, I would not even be here if I did not have more than that. There again, as you know, our aim is above all to protect. And so our witnesses and their depositions remain a secret. We wish to spare them any possible reprisals.’

  A dark-haired angel, his face tilted slightly towards his shoulder, his brow illuminated by an almost unearthly glow that reminded Éleusie of the light that shone through the mullioned windows in the abbey’s Notre-Dame church. The long eyelashes curling towards the brow veiled with a bluish transparency the bottomless gaze, the gaze of death.

  *

  A mask. Raw red beneath the pale skin eaten away by vermin. Festering flesh, strips of greenish skin, viscous foul-smelling fluids. Liquefied cheeks, hollowed eye-sockets, rotting gums. Reddish carapaces, a mass of legs, hungry mouths and tenacious claws burrowing into flesh. The stench of rotting carcasses. A piercing shriek lifted the empty thorax and the ribcage gnawed by unforgiving teeth. A rat scuttled out, its snout red with blood. The beast was upon them.

  Éleusie de Beaufort gripped the edge of her great desk with both hands, suppressing the scream she felt rising in her throat. A voice spoke to her from far away:

  ‘Is anything the matter, Abbess?’

  ‘A dizzy spell, nothing more,’ she managed to
reply before adding, ‘You are welcome, my son. Pray excuse me for a few moments. It must be the heat …’

  He took his leave at once, and Éleusie remained standing alone in the middle of the vast study whose edges were beginning to recede.

  They had come back. The infernal visions. There was nowhere she could seek protection from them now.