by Andrea Japp
Manoir de Souarcy-en-Perche, July 1304
He was so young and handsome, so radiant, that Agnès foolishly thought he must be benevolent. When Adeline had come to announce in a stammering voice the arrival of a lord monk from Alençon who was waiting for her in the great hall, dressed in a beige cloak and a black robe, she had known immediately. She had paused briefly: it was too late to turn back now.
He was standing waiting, his hands clasped around his big wooden crucifix.
‘Monsieur?’
‘Brother Nicolas … I am attached to the headquarters of the Inquisition at Alençon.’
She raised her eyebrows, feigning surprise, struggling to calm her pounding heart. He smiled at her and it occurred to her that he had the most moving smile she had ever seen. Something resembling sadness seemed to well up in the Dominican’s eyes, and he murmured in a pained voice:
‘It has reached our ears, Madame my sister in Christ, that you once sheltered a heretic rather than surrender her to our justice. It has reached our ears that you brought up her posthumous son under circumstances that suggest the work of a demon.’
‘You must be referring to a lady’s maid by the name of Sybille who served me briefly before dying of weakness during childbirth. It was a deadly cold winter that year and claimed many lives.’
‘Indeed, Madame. Everything points to her having been an escaped heretic.’
‘Nonsense. They are the rumours of a jealous woman and I can even provide you with the name of your informant. I am a pious Christian …’
He interrupted her with an elegant gesture of his hand.
‘As your chaplain, Brother Bernard, would confirm?’
‘The Abbess of Clairets as well as the Extern Sister, Jeanne d’Amblin, who is a frequent visitor here, would swear it before God.’
After a few days and some clever questioning at the abbey, Nicolas had arrived at the same conclusion. He had also resolved to put aside the charge of carnal relations with a man of God. He would use it only as a last resort. He moved on:
‘We have not yet arrived at the trial stage, still less at the verdict. This is the time of grace, my sister.’ He closed his eyes and his angelic face stiffened with pain. ‘Confess. Confess and repent, Madame, for the Church is good and just and watches over you. The Church will pardon you. Nobody will know I have been here and you will have washed your soul of all its impurities.’
The Church would pardon her, but she would be handed over to the secular authorities who would confiscate her dower, her daughter and Clément. She hesitated, doubting her ability to withstand an inquisitorial interrogation, and decided to try to gain a little time.
‘My brother … I know nothing about the atrocious crimes of which I stand accused. However, your robes and your office inspire me with trust. Have I let myself be deceived? Am I guilty of having been too trusting? I must search my soul for the answer. Be that as it may, Clément was brought up to respect and love the Holy Church and has no knowledge of the deplorable error of his mother’s ways … if such they were.’
Replacing his crucifix in the inside pocket of his surcoat, he walked towards her, arms outstretched, a satisfied smile on his lips.
A mask … Raw red … eaten away by vermin … Reddish carapaces, a mass of legs, hungry mouths and tenacious claws burrowing into flesh. The stench of rotting carcasses … the ribcage gnawed by unforgiving teeth … A rat, its snout red with blood.
The image was so real it made Agnès gasp. Where did they come from, these excruciating visions of death and suffering? The beast was before her. She stepped back.
Nicolas paused a few paces from Agnès, attempting to penetrate the mystery of the pretty face that suddenly looked so distraught. He had the fleeting impression that he had experienced this scene before, though he was unable to recall the precise circumstances. A feeling he had believed himself rid of forever made his throat go dry: fear. He stifled it and leapt at the chance to turn Agnès de Souarcy’s strange reaction to his advantage.
‘Have you strayed so far down the road to perdition that you fear the embrace of a man of God?’
‘No,’ she breathed in an almost inaudible voice.
This man was a personification of Evil. He loved Evil. She was certain of it, though she did not know how. And yet for the last few moments, since that horrific vision, she was no longer alone. A powerful shade was fighting beside her. More than one. She was filled with a strength she thought she had lost. She let herself be guided, replying boldly:
‘No … I am taken aback by your assertion. Did Sybille deceive me? Did she take advantage of my kindness, my naivety? What a terrible thought. I am afraid that, if Clément were to learn the awful truth about his mother, it would destroy him,’ she dissimulated with an ease imparted to her by the good shades.
They, too, compelled her with open arms towards this diabolical angel and made her clasp the shoulders of this man who repelled her in a gesture of love and trust.
He had not come here for her confession – he wanted her life, whispered the shades to Agnès, whose mind was now humming with voices that were not her own. Was one of them Clémence? Agnès could not tell.
As she relaxed her embrace the eyes staring back at her had become veiled with a kind of anger. The struggle threatened to be more prolonged than he had envisaged. If she confessed before the inquisitorial court that the lady’s maid had been a heretic but insisted that her error had been made in good faith, the judges would be predisposed to leniency. She would be let off with a mere pilgrimage or, at worst, a few novenas. He could bid farewell to the Baron’s hundred pounds – which he had had no intention of returning following the death of his half-sister, as well as the three hundred pledged to him by the mysterious messenger. He could say goodbye to his pleasure.
Then the anguish Nicolas had contrived to suppress returned, striking him with full force; his life was in danger should he fail. The cloaked figure had the power to show no mercy. Whereas before he had merely despised his future victim – his toy – now he was beginning to detest her.
No sooner had he left than Agnès slumped to her knees. She begged the voices to come back, for they had grown silent since the Inquisitor’s departure.
Was she losing her mind? She prayed for what seemed like hours. She was in the grip of a sort of delirium. At that very moment, she would have given anything for the voices to live in her again, to soothe her.
‘My angel,’ she sobbed quietly.
A sigh, like a caress, inside her head.
Clément found Agnès huddled on the stone floor in the main hall. A moment of sheer panic. He rushed to her side as it struck him she might be dead. She was sleeping. The child stroked the thick plaits coiled round his mistress’s head and beseeched her:
‘Madame! Pray wake up, Madame. What is the matter? Why …’
‘Hush! He was here, and it was Evil who embraced me. You must leave here immediately, Clément.’ Sensing a mounting protest, she added in a firm voice, ‘It is an order and I will not accept any argument.’ Softening all of a sudden, she continued, still seated on the floor, ‘You must do as I say out of love for me. The inquisitorial procedure has begun.’
Clément’s eyes grew wide with fright and he trembled:
‘My God …’
‘Hush and listen to me. Something extraordinary has occurred. Something so extraordinary that I hesitate to share it with you for I myself am so bewildered that I can barely gather my thoughts.’
‘What was it, Madame?’
‘A presence, or rather several presences … It is very difficult to describe. The realisation that I was being helped by some kind of benevolent force.’
‘By God?’
‘No. But whatever they might be they inspired me with a feeling of confidence, a strength that tells me I am able to defeat this evil being, this Inquisitor named Nicolas Florin. He is … a personification of the worst, Clément. How can I explain it to you? Eudes is wicked but this man is evil. You mus
t disappear, for while you have been my strength all these years, now you are my biggest weakness. You know as well as I. If that man manages to persuade the superstitious fools he will appoint as judges that you are an incubus, your youth will be no protection, on the contrary. And if he finds out that we have concealed your true sex, the outcome will be even worse. His judgement will be implacable in their eyes for you are the child of a heretic. And then they will believe anything that monster tells them. You must leave, Clément. For my sake.’
‘What about Mathilde?’
‘I shall ask the Abbess of Clairets to take her in for a while.’
‘But I can …’ he tried to argue.
‘I beg you, Clément! You can help me by leaving. Go quickly.’
‘Would it really be helping you, Madame? Are you not just trying to protect me?’
‘I am trying to protect us all.’
‘But where will I go, Madame?’
Her immediate response was a despairing smile:
‘Of course nobody will rush to our aid. The only person I could think of approaching for protection is Artus d’Authon and I do not know whether he will grant it to me on your behalf. If he refuses for fear of the consequences, flee, it does not matter where. Swear to me on your soul. Swear!’
He paused then yielded before her insistence:
‘I swear.’
She clasped the child to her, and he buried his face in her rosemary-scented, silky hair. A terrible grief made him want to burst into tears, to cling on to his lady. He felt as if all his strength were being sucked out of him. Without her he was lost, without her he knew not which way to turn. For her he could do anything, of that he was certain. But the huge void that grew even as she spoke paralysed his body and crushed his spirit.
‘Thank you, my sweet child. I shall write a letter for you to give the Comte. If he should refuse to hide you … I have saved some gold coins, not many but enough for you to reach a port and sail to England – the only country that has not yielded to the temptation of the Inquisition. Go and saddle a horse and fetch some supplies and join me in my chamber.’
When she released him from her embrace, he felt he was dying there at her feet.
Did she sense it? She whispered in his ear:
‘I am not afraid any more, Clément. I will prevail – for your sake and mine, for everyone’s sake, and for the sake of the good shades. Never forget that you are always with me even though we are apart. Never forget that I am guided by love and when love fights it overcomes all. Never forget.’
‘I will not forget, Madame. I love you so.’
‘Prove it to me by not coming back until I have defeated this creature of darkness.’
In a few short years Clément would have grown into a young woman. The deception that had allowed Agnès to keep her by her side would be too difficult to maintain. What would be Clément’s, Clémence’s, reaction when she discovered the whole truth about her birth? The weighty secret shared by three women, two of whom were now dead.
In a few short years … if God allowed them both to live.
As she watched the child leave, Agnès was surprised by how much he had grown in a few months. His breeches reached halfway up his legs and his heels were sticking out over the backs of his clogs. She felt absurdly cross with herself for not having noticed it before. Suddenly it seemed vital to her to remedy the situation before his departure – as though such a simple gesture were a clear link to the future, as though it were proof they would soon be reunited.
And what if she was deluding herself? What if she was unable to survive an interrogation, to defeat that beautiful infernal creature? What if she never saw Clément again? What if she perished? What if Comte Artus was merely a pleasant façade concealing a coward? What if he sent Clément away or, worse still, delivered him into the hands of the Inquisition?
Stop! Stop this instant!
A month would pass, a month of grace. She had time to reflect, to prepare her defence, to think of other solutions. Clément had already helped her to do so one evening when he came back from one of his mysterious night-time forays.
A courage she had not expected to feel since the shades grew silent returned. She was no longer alone, even though she had chosen to send Clément away. She had not been lying to him. He was at this moment her greatest weakness. She felt capable of resisting anything except a threat to his young life. Now he was gone, out of harm’s way, she could confront them. A strange thought occurred to her, a thought which up until a few days before she would never have had. She would show no mercy. Eudes had woven the web that was closing in on her. If she survived this ordeal, she would make him pay, ruthlessly. The time for forgiveness, for moderation was over.
She went to the kitchens and calmly ordered Adeline to find some clothes that would fit Clément and to pack a bundle of food for him, without satisfying the girl’s silent curiosity.
Château d’Authon-du-Perche, August 1304
Torrential rain had threatened to ruin the harvest, which took place later in Perche than in Beauce. Everybody had pitched in, working night and day to beat the storms.
Artus had galvanised his troop of peasants and serfs, riding from one farm to another, scolding some, praising others. They had watched him roll up the sleeves of his fine linen tunic, pacify two enormous Perche horses harnessed to a cart and drive them to collect the harvested wheat. The women had marvelled at his physical strength and the men admired him for not shying away from such ignoble and punishing work. He had shared their meals of cider, coarse bread and bacon, and, like them, had collapsed onto the haystacks for an hour’s rest and sworn like a soldier that ‘this accursed weather won’t get the better of me, by God!’ They had worked for two whole days and nights without stopping.
Artus d’Authon had returned worn out, soaked to the skin, covered in grime and stinking. Before collapsing fully dressed onto the bed he had felt comforted by the fact that since morning he had hardly thought about her at all.
He slept through the night and most of the next day. When he awoke, Ronan, who had served his father, had drawn him a hot bath and was waiting armed with brush, soap and bath sheets.
‘Those hay fleas have eaten you alive, my Lord,’ observed the old man.
‘In which case they must all be dead,’ Artus joked. ‘Careful, you evil tormentor, my eyes aren’t dirty so don’t put soap in them!’
‘Forgive me, my Lord, you’re covered in grime and, well, it’s very stubborn grime.’
‘It is the real sort, the sort that comes from the earth. I am hungry, Ronan, very hungry. Are you planning to torture me much longer with this brush?’
‘There’s still your hair to do, my Lord. I was leaving the best until last. A young boy arrived last night. He seemed exhausted.’
‘Who?’
‘His name is Clément, and he claims he had the honour of meeting you at his mistress’s house.’
Artus d’Authon rose suddenly to his feet, causing a wave of soapy grey water to spill over the sides of the huge tub and soak the floorboards. He cried, almost shouted:
‘What did you do with him? Is he still here?’
‘Your hair, my Lord, your hair! I shall tell you the rest if you sit down quietly in the tub and let me clean that … stuff on your head.’
Ronan had witnessed worse, first with the late Comte d’Authon and then with Artus, whom he had known since he was born.
‘Don’t speak to me like a nanny,’ grumbled the Comte.
‘Why not since that’s what I am?’
‘I was afraid you would say that.’
Artus adored Ronan. He embodied Artus’s living memories – the most wonderful and most dreadful. He was the only one who had braved his master’s murderous rage following the death of little Gauzelin. Without saying a word he had doggedly carried on taking Artus’s supper up to his chamber, despite his master’s threats if he continued. The only time Artus had ever begged for God’s forgiveness was on account of Ronan, o
n account of the slap he had given his faithful servant that had sent him crashing to the floor. Ronan had picked himself up, the imprint of Artus’s fingers reddening on his cheek. He had stared at the Comte, a terrible sadness in his eyes, and said:
‘Until the morning, then, my Lord. I hope the night is kind to you.’
The following day an even more haggard-looking Artus had apologised, his head bowed in obediance. Ronan, his eyes brimming with tears, had walked over and embraced Artus for the first time since he was a child:
‘My poor boy, my poor boy, it is a terrible injustice … I beg you during this dreadful ordeal not to forget your goodness and generosity of spirit, for if you do then death will have triumphed on all fronts.’
It was no doubt thanks to that slap that Artus’s rage had abated. He had continued along the path of life.
‘Quick, tell me, what did you do with him?’ Artus repeated, wincing as Ronan scrubbed his head hard enough to take the skin off.
‘I put him in one of the outbuildings and gave him some food, a blanket and a straw mattress until I could find out what you wanted to do with him. One of the farm hands saw to his horse. The boy has a letter. He showed me the roll of parchment, but refused to give it to me. It is addressed to you and no one else. His story sounded true enough. I hope I did not act naively regarding the boy.’
‘No. You did well. Gently does it – it’s my hair, not a horse’s mane.’
‘It could easily be mistaken for one, my Lord.’
‘So what about this Clément? What story was this?’
‘His mistress ordered him to come here to you.’ Ronan sighed before continuing, ‘The boy’s terrified, and I think I am right in saying that he did not wish to leave her side, only she commanded it. He is waiting for you.’
‘Have you done with that brush yet? There we are. I’m as shiny as a new gold coin!’
‘Talking of gold coins …’
Ronan paused. His voice had a strange catch in it as he continued:
