The Lady Agnes Mystery, Volume 1

by Andrea Japp

  ‘He asked me how much the meal I gave him last night would cost. He explained that he had seven gold coins – his mistress’s entire fortune, which she entrusted to him when he left. He said he did not wish to squander what she had worked so hard to save, and would prefer to eat only a little bread and soup. I had great difficulty trying to convince him that I was not an inn keeper and that he was your guest.’

  Artus closed his eyes, pretending they were stinging from the soap. The heart he had believed lifeless skipped a beat. He was overwhelmed by a sweet pain raging in his breast. His life was so empty of love it felt as if he were discovering it anew: the boundless love Clément had for his lady, the love she felt for the brave boy, his own love for Agnès. Seven gold coins. The whole of her tiny fortune – barely the price of a handsome coat with a fur trim.

  ‘Yes, yes, I’ve finished,’ Ronan informed him. ‘And yes, the boy is fed and rested and waiting for you, my Lord.’

  Artus stepped out of his bath and, hopping about impatiently, allowed Ronan to dry him.

  Artus walked up and down, hunched forward, his hands clasped behind his back. The large blue-green eyes followed his every movement. Clément had explained the situation in a few words. The Inquisition, Mabile’s supposed revelations, the Dominican’s visit, the time of grace dwindling like the grains of sand in an hourglass. He had sobbed when he related Agnès’s fear that he would be arrested and tortured, and how she had made him swear on his soul to go away and not come back, to flee, leaving her to face the Inquisition alone. And then he had had to stop, for his tears drowned out his words – and he was so afraid for her. The Comte d’Authon walked over to his desk again and read Agnès’s letter for the tenth time.

  Monsieur,

  Believe me when I tell you I regret the anguish I am about to cause you. Believe me also when I say that I am your humble and loyal under-vassal and that your decision will be mine.

  I find myself at present in a dangerous and very delicate situation. It is my destiny to confront it and I am prepared – at least I hope I am. God will be my guide.

  This is not the motive of my appeal, but I am indeed appealing to you. You know Clément. He has served me faithfully and is very dear to my heart. He is a pure and loyal soul and as such deserves protection.

  When I understood that I must send him away for his own safety, is it not curious that only your name should come to my mind?

  If you decide after hearing the boy that you cannot accept Clément into your household, I beg you, with all due obedience and respect, to let him go and to inform no one. I have given him seven gold coins, all that I possess. He should be able to survive for some time on that sum. I would be eternally grateful to you.

  I am guilty of none of the monstrosities of which I stand accused and Clément even less so. If I am right in thinking I know the origin of this plot that threatens my life, I have a vague feeling that it is no longer in the hands of its perpetrator.

  Whatever the case, Monsieur, rest assured that the memory of your visit to Souarcy is the most agreeable one I have had since I was widowed. In truth, and if I may be so bold, I avow that I have not experienced such pleasant moments since death took Madame Clémence from me – may she rest in everlasting peace.

  May God protect you, and may He protect Clément.

  Your very sincere and obedient vassal,

  Agnès de Souarcy.

  The Comte was plunged into a maelstrom of conflicting emotions that prevented him from speaking to this oddly slender boy, who seemed so young, standing before him, his head held high, his gaze steady even as he trembled with fear.

  But why had she not sought his protection herself? He could have intervened, made this Inquisitor withdraw his accusations. Admittedly they wielded great power, but it did not extend to angering the King of France, and for her Artus was prepared to lower himself to request the King to intervene. For her. Philip would have understood. He was a great king and a man of honour and of his word when the affairs of state were not in the balance. And, moreover, he was not overly fond of the Church or of the Inquisition, even if he used them as his needs dictated.

  This woman bowled him over, exasperated him, humbled him, moved him in a way nobody else ever had. Her courage was equalled only by her reckless blindness.

  Did she really believe she could fight a Grand Inquisitor alone? With what weapons?

  No, she was not blind. She was as Monge had described her – a lynx. She was using guile, protecting her young, exposing her throat in order to distract her enemy momentarily.

  Did she really believe she could turn on him, bury her teeth in his accursed flesh? She could not stand up to them. They had full powers and enjoyed complete immunity since each absolved the other of his sins whatever they might be.

  What if she knew this? What if it was deliberate suicide? He was enough of a huntsman to know that female lynxes were capable of it, and when this happened he would stop the chase and let the animal go. Once, one had turned after fleeing a few paces and gazed at him with her yellow eyes before vanishing like a ghost into the thicket. Artus had been struck by the mysterious certainty that the animal had been acknowledging, perhaps even thanking him.

  The predator Clément had described would never retract his claws and release his prey. Agnès stood no chance against him.

  His fist struck the table and he cried out:

  ‘No!’

  Clément did not flinch.

  ‘We must find a way out,’ mumbled Artus. ‘But how? We have no pope. Any petition, even from the King himself, would be lost in the Vatican’s maze of officialdom, each in turn giving the excuse of there being no pontiff as a justification for doing nothing.’

  Clément waited, motionless, expecting he knew not what from this man – a miracle perhaps. He suggested:

  ‘Was not the King’s brother, Monsieur Charles de Valois, awarded the county of Alençon last year?’

  ‘Yes, he was.’

  ‘The headquarters of the Inquisition to which Nicolas Florin is attached are at Alençon,’ insisted the child.

  ‘If I thought that an intervention by the royal family might help us, I would choose Philip, not our good Charles, who is not known for his political finesse. My boy … Comte d’Alençon or no, Charles can do nothing. The Inquisition takes orders from no one but the Pope.’

  ‘And we have no pope,’ repeated Clément.

  His voice was quaking, and he bit his lip to stop himself from continuing, but Artus must have read his thoughts and bellowed:

  ‘No! Cast that idea from your mind! She is not lost! I am not done thinking about it yet. Leave me now. I need peace in order to reflect and your deafening silence prevents me.’

  Clément left without a sound.

  Reflect.

  The realisation he had just come to while he was speaking to the young boy with the blue-green eyes stunned him by its simplicity, its intensity. He would do anything to save her. It was accompanied by his increasing lucidity, cynicism even, as regards almost the entire religious apparatus. Faith was quickly set aside when power and money came into play. Artus knew that some Inquisitors could be bought, and this one was no exception to the rule since Eudes had clearly paid him for his services. All he needed to do, then, was to offer a higher price.

  He would leave for Alençon the next day.

  Headquarters of the Inquisition, Alençon, Perche, August 1304

  Artus was stunned by the young man’s perfect beauty. The image Agnès and Clément had painted of him was by no means exaggerated. The Inquisitor’s unctuousness was so predictable that under any other circumstances he might have found it amusing.

  ‘Your visit is an honour for me, Monsieur, lowly monk that I am.’

  ‘A lowly monk! You judge yourself too harshly, Monsieur.’

  Nicolas resented this noble who put him at a secular level, denuding him of his religious aura. All the more so, since his polite phrase had permitted the Comte not to return the honour. He
did not doubt that the Comte’s choice of words had been deliberate.

  During the journey there, Artus had mulled over the best way to tackle the Inquisitor. Should he broach his subject gradually or go straight to the point? His deep uneasiness, and the fact that he wanted above all to avoid giving the other man the impression he was unsure of himself, made him choose the second strategy.

  ‘I understand you recently went to notify a lady – a friend of mine – of her time of grace, did you not?’

  ‘Madame de Souarcy?’

  Artus nodded. He sensed the Inquisitor’s uncertainty. Nicolas cursed that fool Larnay who had assured him that the Comte d’Authon would not intervene in favour of the lady. He recalled the words, and the warning, of the figure in the dark cloak and quickly calmed down. What could the Comte do in the face of such power, even if he did enjoy the friendship of the King? He replied in a soft voice:

  ‘I was unaware that Madame de Souarcy was a friend of yours, Monsieur.’

  It occurred to Artus that had Agnès not opened his eyes to Nicolas Florin through Clément, he would almost certainly have considered him above suspicion. After all, if evil were not so deeply seductive, how did it win over so many adepts?

  ‘She is.’ Artus paused then continued, ‘I do not doubt that you are a man of faith …’

  A pair of blinking eyes responded.

  ‘… and intelligence. The motive for Monsieur de Larnay’s anger at his half-sister is not one with which a pious man of honour would wish to be associated. It is of a personal nature and … how should I say … reprehensible in the extreme.’

  ‘What are you trying to tell me?’ said the offended Florin, amused at his own duplicity.

  ‘He failed to mention that aspect to you, and the true nature of his resentment.’

  ‘Indeed!’ agreed Nicolas, who had understood perfectly that Eudes was not motivated by religious zeal and the defence of the purity of the faith.

  ‘In short, he has made you waste your precious time,’ continued Artus, ‘for which I insist on compensating you. Nobody is aware yet that an inquiry has been instigated against Madame de Souarcy. Therefore you may call a halt to it.’

  Nicolas was enjoying himself greatly. Power. Power was finally his – the power to slap down the Comte, to send him packing. The power to be his superior. He gave a clumsy show of wounded indignation in order to make it clear to the other man that he was mocking him.

  ‘Monsieur … I hardly dare believe that you are offering me money in order to … Do you imagine that I would have been to see Madame de Souarcy had I not been convinced of the legitimacy of her half-brother’s suspicions concerning her? I am indeed a man of God. I have given Him my labour and my life.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Monsieur, I must ask you to leave here at once and never return. You have offended both me and the Church. Out of respect for your reputation I bid you, let it rest.’

  Artus understood the implicit threat and, while it did not unduly alarm him, something else made him feel far more uneasy. What hidden power was protecting Nicolas Florin, making him feel so unassailable that he could allow himself the luxury of mocking a lord? Certainly not that cipher Eudes de Larnay.

  He recalled Agnès’s suspicion: something far darker and more fearsome was at work behind these accusations against her.

  On the road back to Authon, Artus came to a decision.

  If necessary, Nicolas Florin would die – an inconspicuous death that would have all the appearance of being an accident. He was clear in his mind that the annihilation of harmful vermin did not constitute a crime. His mouth set in a grimace. All the more so as he would afterwards turn the vermin’s weapons against Agnès’s enemies. He would loudly proclaim that God’s judgement had intervened. That God had punished Nicolas for his inclemency and injustice. In His infinite wisdom and His magnificent goodness He had spared the innocent Agnès. While most people now had reservations regarding divine intervention, which had never once been proven during the many trials by ordeal,42 none would dare contradict him.

  Artus relaxed and Ogier shook his mane in harmony with his master’s changed mood.

  If necessary, he was prepared. Though he hoped a reversal of fortune would spare him from having to bloody his hands outside the field of honourable combat.

  Louvre Palace, Paris, August 1304

  The candlelight cast eerie shadows on the ugly walls of the office cluttered with registers. Monsieur de Nogaret certainly had an austere notion of comfort. There was little in the way of wall hangings to protect the occupants from the cold and damp. In fact there was only one that covered the large stones behind Nogaret’s work table. Francesco de Leone kicked himself for not having thought of it before. Taking advantage of the absences of the King’s Counsellor, he had searched for hours, finding nothing of any interest. And then, the previous evening, as he was preparing to go to bed after the meagre supper Giotto Capella had had sent up to him, an image flashed through his mind of a pack of dogs on a dark-blue background, their flanks hollow from exertion, their open mouths highlighted with red stitching.

  He lifted the tapestry. Flush with the stone was a small metal plate. A padlocked safe set in the wall. Leone studied it. He had opened enough prison doors and safes considered foolproof by their inventors for this lock not to present any great difficulty. He pulled a fine metal rod out of his breeches and skilfully opened it within seconds. Even if his intrusion were discovered, which he doubted, he would be gone within a few hours, and Capella would have to deal with Nogaret’s men. Inside the tiny space were scrolls of parchment and a bag bulging with what must have been gold pieces. A slim notebook bound in black calfskin caught his attention. The pages were covered in the Counsellor’s narrow, hurried script. Francesco skimmed through it. The State secrets it contained, if divulged, would cause repercussions throughout the whole of Christendom. And so the holy crusade against the Albigensians had been a pretext to remove Raymond VI of Toulouse, recover the Languedoc and allow the lords of the North to carve out the southern fiefs as they wished. And so, despite the bitter defeat at Courtrai the previous year, King Philip’s army was preparing for battle again in a few days’ time in Flanders. He felt a painful wrench in his heart when he came across the rows of figures spread over several pages: an estimate of the fortunes of the Templars and the Order of the Hospitallers. So it was true: their suppression was planned. The Templars, who were wealthier, as well as more vulnerable, would be the first to go. Then it would be the turn of the Hospitallers.

  There was a sound of footsteps close by. Francesco replaced the tapestry and unsheathed his dagger. They approached the door then died away along the corridor. He must hurry.

  Underneath the rows of figures were a few brief comments dotted with questions marks:

  Exemption from taxes granted to Templars? Will hopefully increase anger and resentment on the part of the populace.

  Association with heretics or demons? Secret dealings with the infidel? Sodomy? Perjury, blasphemy or idolatry? Human sacrifice, sacrifice of children?

  So the prior, Arnaud de Viancourt, had been right: exemption from taxes had only been granted to the Templars so as to precipitate their downfall. As for the rest, what did it mean? Were these authentic suspicions, or a list of imaginary and interchangeable charges for King Philip to make use of when the time came to justify an inquiry and a trial? The fate of the two great military orders was sealed. Arnaud de Viancourt and the Grand-Master had been right. When would sentence be passed?

  Leone struggled with the anger and grief choking him and read on.

  There were other sets of figures – a detailed inventory right down to the payment of a few pennies to spies in service, which accounted for some of Monsieur Philippe de Marigny’s expenditure of Treasury money. Thus he learnt that Squire Thierry had received a hundred pennies for examining the contents of a cardinal’s letters, and a launderer by the name of Ninon eighty for inspecting a prelate’s bed linen in order
to ascertain whether the man was ill before approaching him. Monsieur de Nogaret was a meticulous and prudent man. Finally he came across two names underlined in a list including four others that had been crossed out: Renaud de Cherlieu, Cardinal of Troyes, and Bertrand de Got,* Archbishop of Bordeaux.

  The Knight replaced the notebook and closed the padlock.

  He regretted not having more time to peruse the other documents. What did it matter in the end? Only one kingdom mattered to him, that of God. Men would continue to tear each other apart over stupidities blown out of all proportion. Soon the truth would be clear for all to see, and nobody would be able to pretend that it wasn’t there any more simply by closing their eyes.

  Francesco de Leone left the Louvre. The night was fortuitously dark. The stench in the streets, intensified by the seasonal heat, did not bother him any more than the odour emanating from the mass of humanity crowded into hovels.

  He had a few minutes left in which to compose a coded letter to Arnaud de Viancourt. He must then deliver it to a priest friend at the Église Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois who would make sure it reached Cyprus. The content was to the point and would make little sense to the uninitiated.

  Dearest Cousin,

  My research into angelology is proceeding at a slower pace than I had anticipated and than you had hoped, despite the inestimable help provided by the writings of Augustine – above all the remarkable City of God. The second order43 of Dominations, Virtues and Powers is extremely difficult to comprehend in its entirety and no less so the third order of Principalities, Archangels and Angels. Nevertheless, I persevere in earnest and hope that in my next missive I shall be able to inform you of important advances in my work.

  Your humble and indebted Guillaume.

  Arnaud de Viancourt would understand from this that Leone had discovered the names of six French prelates who enjoyed the King of France’s backing, but that he needed more time to unearth the identity of those most likely to be elected pope. The Knight did not mention the catastrophic discovery of the planned demise of the Templar and Hospitaller orders. He must reflect more on the best form of counter-attack.