by Andrea Japp
Éleusie gave them a summary of the short, unsuccessful conversation she had just had with the sister in charge of the granary.
Annelette said sharply:
‘Why does she insist upon behaving in a way that can only make us suspicious?’
‘I do not believe for a moment that she could be this … this monster,’ declared Jeanne, shaking her head.
Annelette retorted instantaneously:
‘In that case, what was she doing at night outside the herbarium?’
‘I don’t know … Perhaps she really did need some fresh air. It is possible. What do you think, Reverend Mother?’ the extern sister asked, turning to Éleusie.
‘What should I think …? Naturally I do not see Yolande de Fleury as a toxicatore.81 But then I do not see any of my daughters in such a wicked role. As for Yolande, I am beginning to wonder whether her stubbornness might not conceal … a … how should I say … Goodness, how embarrassing …’
‘Pray explain to us, Reverend Mother,’ said Jeanne d’Amblin, trying to make her feel less awkward.
‘Well, as we all know in every cloistered community where celibacy is the rule … and this applies no less to our brother monks … I mean …’ She adopted a more matter-of-fact tone.
‘Rome is aware that in some monasteries, a lack of emotion and physical contact can lead some of us to engage in relationships with … a fellow nun or monk of the same sex.’
Jeanne d’Amblin stared at the hem of her dress and Annelette declared:
‘Are you suggesting that Yolande might be carrying on an … improper relationship in a place of prayer and meditation?’
‘I have no idea, daughter. It is simply a thought that occurred to me, if only because I far prefer it to the idea of Yolande as a poisoner. One is a minor misdemeanour we can only hope is passing, the other a vile murder requiring flagellation and death.’
A brief silence descended. Annelette Beaupré knew all about such practices. A blind eye was turned to them in the hope that they would remain hidden, above all from the outside world. She herself had been the object of furtive glances and smiles that were more than expressions of sisterly warmth. Such infatuations of the heart and the senses baffled her, and reinforced her general lack of respect for her fellow human beings. Why this need for fleshly contact and kisses when there were so many marvels waiting to be studied and understood? If she had managed to avoid being bedded by a man, it was certainly not so as to be bedded by a woman. Jeanne d’Amblin broke the uneasy silence:
‘I can make no sense of this dreadful business! Why would anyone want to poison Adélaïde and why try to kill Blanche, if she really was the intended victim? Unless … unless this is a case of insanity or’ – she paused to cross herself before finishing her sentence – ‘demonic possession …?’
The apothecary glanced at Éleusie, seeking her consent, which Éleusie gave with a nod. Annelette explained:
‘Assuming that madness does not lie at the root of this murderous act, the only motive we can think of, and which bears some weight … are the keys to the safe containing our Reverend Mother’s seal. It is customary for the guardian of the seal, our senior nun, to be entrusted with one of these keys. A second is kept by Berthe de Marchiennes, and the third, naturally, is in the hands of our Reverend Mother.’
Jeanne d’Amblin’s eyes opened wide with astonishment, and she murmured:
‘Falsified documents? But that’s terrible … That seal can send innocent people to the gallows! And … And a lot more besides …’
‘Undeniably,’ Éleusie interrupted. ‘But rest assured, Jeanne, the seal is safe; it has not been moved.’
‘Oh, thank God …’ she whispered.
Éleusie could not tell whether the momentary relief this piece of news brought her outweighed their common concern.
Annelette intervened impatiently:
‘Yes! If indeed we have discovered the murderess’s true motive, we are confronted with a difficult choice. If the seal is what she wants, she will try again. As we plan to announce later, I am now in possession of our senior sister’s key. Our Reverend Mother will hold on to hers and the third will remain in the keeping of Berthe de Marchiennes.’
A sudden flash of comprehension registered on Jeanne d’Amblin’s face and she all but cried out:
‘But that means … that means … she will try to kill all three of you? Oh no … oh no, I couldn’t bear it!’
‘Do you have a better idea?’ asked Annelette, who was becoming irritated.
‘Well … Well, I don’t know … I’ll think of something, be patient! You say that she tried to poison Blanche in order to take her key. I’ve got it. Why not hide them somewhere instead of keeping them under our robes or around our necks? Let’s hide them in a secret place that only one of us will know about, our Reverend Mother, for example. That way we will trounce the monster at her own game. Poisoning our Abbess won’t help her discover the hiding place.’
The logic of the idea should have convinced Annelette, and she was surprised when it didn’t. Even so she was honest enough to wonder, fleetingly, whether this was not because she resented Jeanne for thinking of it first.
‘Your idea is a good one,’ she conceded. ‘Let us think about it. Before we do, there is another rather more urgent matter that requires our attention.’
Éleusie cast a bemused glance at her apothecary daughter, who continued:
‘First of all, Jeanne, I should inform you that almost an ounce of yew powder has gone missing, the powder I use for killing the rats and field mice that attack our granary.’
‘Why was I not told about this earlier?’
‘It was stolen during your rounds.’
‘Sweet Jesus,’ murmured Jeanne d’Amblin. ‘She could …’
‘Yes, she could easily kill one of us with it … Which makes me think that another murder is imminent.’
‘“Urgent” is certainly the right word!’ the extern sister remarked.
‘Jeanne, there is a favour I should like to ask of you.’
The sudden hesitancy in the apothecary nun’s usually forthright voice alerted the other two women. Having not been consulted beforehand about the appropriateness of any request, Éleusie wondered what she could be about to say.
‘I trust that our Reverend Mother will not be offended by my asking you this without giving her prior warning. I … Let us just say that I have formed my own suspicions regarding some of the other nuns – suspicions which I am aware may be wholly unfounded …’
Such circuitous, cautious speech coming from Annelette, who was normally so blunt, made the other two women uneasy.
‘… Our Reverend Mother has not influenced my suspicions in any way. To cut a long story short,’ she continued more boldly, ‘I have very little trust in Berthe de Marchiennes.’
‘You go too far,’ murmured Éleusie, incredulous.
‘Well, that is how I see it,’ Annelette retorted, not without a hint of resentment. ‘In any event I would like you to keep her key, Jeanne.’
The extern sister looked at her as if she had gone raving mad before exploding:
‘Have you taken leave of your senses? Absolutely not! And become the murderer’s target in Berthe’s place? I refuse! If you were to ask me to guard our Reverend Mother’s key in order to protect her life, I would accept. Not without trepidation, I confess, but I would accept. But do not imagine for a second that I would do the same for Berthe … Never!’
Despite the gravity of the circumstances, Éleusie found herself stifling a smile. This was the first time she had ever seen Jeanne lose her calm. She said reassuringly:
‘My dear Jeanne, I am grateful to you for wanting to protect me. I am grateful to you both. It has taken these terrible events to show me who my true friends are. As for my key … I will keep it. Nobody else should bear the burden of responsibility I took on when I joined Clairets.’
Jeanne lowered her eyes to hide her sorrow. Éleusie tried to put her mind at r
est:
‘My dear Jeanne, this is not my funeral oration. I have no intention of being poisoned before this evil has been eradicated.’
A few moments later when they took leave of one another, Éleusie conveyed to the apothecary with a meaningful look that she wished to speak to her alone. Annelette accompanied Jeanne d’Amblin along the corridor leading to the scriptorium then took leave of her on the pretext of wanting to verify something, and returned via the gardens.
Éleusie de Beaufort was still standing behind her heavy oak table, apparently not having moved.
‘And this little trap you are setting, daughter, when will you give me the results? Time is running out. I can sense the beast is about to strike again.’
‘Soon … I am waiting, watching and waiting.’
Inquisition headquarters, Alençon, Perche, November 1304
Nicolas Florin studied the Comte Artus d’Authon, seated on the other side of his tiny desk, with an air of bored politeness.
‘I regret, Seigneur, that since you are not a direct relative of Madame de Souarcy I cannot allow you to visit her. I assure you that it pains me not to be able to indulge you in this matter, but I am obliged to follow strict rules.’
Florin waited to see the effect of this barely concealed snub. Artus remained calm, contriving not to betray his simmering rage to the inquisitor. The evil rat was revelling in his power.
‘I understand that Madame de Souarcy’s cross-examination has already begun.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you suppose the trial will go on for long?’
‘I fear it will, Seigneur Comte. But do not ask me any further details. The inquisitorial procedure, as you know, is shrouded in the utmost secrecy. We are most keen to preserve the honour and dignity of those brought before us until formal proof of their guilt has been established.’
‘Oh, I do not doubt for an instant that Madame de Souarcy’s honour and dignity are of the utmost concern to you,’ retorted Artus d’Authon.
Florin clasped his hands on his black robe and waited to see what the powerful lord would do next. Would he attempt to bribe him as he had during their first meeting? Would he threaten him or beg him? And he, Florin, which would he prefer? A combination of all three, of course.
But instead of this, Artus’s fleshy lips parted in a strange smile, a smile that bared his teeth. Suddenly he stood up, much to the surprise of Florin, who automatically followed suit.
‘Since, as I anticipated, my request has been in vain, I would not want to waste any more of your time. I therefore bid you goodbye.’
After the Comte had left, Florin sat brooding. What had in fact occurred? Why had the arrogant fool not begged him? Had he not received a stinging insult? He certainly felt the blood rush to his cheeks as if he had just been slapped. Who did that Comte think he was! So, he wanted to see his female, did he? Well, he should come back in a few days’ time. Since she had failed to confess under cross-examination her torture would begin the very next day.
Seized by a murderous rage, he sent his desk flying. Stacks of files and notes lay scattered about the office. He shrieked:
‘Agnan, come here this instant!’
The young clerk rushed in and gazed incredulously at the disarray. Florin growled ominously:
‘Don’t just stand there, you fool, pick it up!’
It was almost none when Francesco de Leone, who was standing in a porch, saw Nicolas Florin leave the Inquisition headquarters. The Dominican responded to the polite greetings of a few passers-by with an unassuming smile then turned into Rue de l’Arche. Leone pulled his cowl over his face and straightened the short, waisted peasant’s tunic he was wearing underneath the thick leather apron of a smith. He fell in behind the inquisitor, maintaining a few yards’ distance between them. A grubby-looking boy passed him by, then slowed down all of a sudden and sauntered along with his arms behind his back, gazing up at the surrounding buildings. Leone wondered for a moment whether he wasn’t up to some mischief.
The knight had no real plan – as he had assured Hermine after her performance as the wealthy Marguerite Galée, eager to send her father-in-law to a better world. He was not sure whether he was hoping to discover compromising evidence that would force Florin to back down or waiting for a situation to arise that would require killing him. Leone was aware that he was allowing himself to be guided by the other man’s actions, which might or might not lead to his death. This was not a hypocritical attempt to evade responsibility. Leone had been responsible for many deaths, but had never chosen his victims. Florin, however undeserving, would enjoy what he had been unable to offer the others: a private judgement of God. If he were not meant to die, he would be spared. This was what the Hospitaller sincerely believed.
The inquisitor lengthened his stride, as though he were in a hurry to get somewhere. Perhaps, also, now that they were further away from the Inquisition headquarters he was no longer worried lest somebody question his haste. Curiously enough, the little beggar boy had also quickened his pace and was keeping the same distance between himself and Florin. Leone’s soldierly instinct alerted him.
Florin turned right and walked up towards Rue des Petites-Poteries. All of a sudden, he slipped into Rue du Croc. Leone hurried after him but by the time he reached the cobbler’s shop on the corner, Florin had vanished and he found himself face to face with the little rascal who was looking equally bemused. Just as the boy was about to run off, Leone leapt forward and grabbed him by the tunic.
‘Who are you following?’
‘Who, me? Nobody, I swear!’
The knight took hold of the boy’s ear and, leaning over, whispered:
‘You were following the Dominican, weren’t you? I’m a man of little patience so don’t lie to me. Who sent you?’
The boy panicked. He certainly didn’t look very friendly, this smith. He tried unsuccessfully to wriggle free from his grasp.
‘Let go of me!’ the boy protested, trembling with fear.
Putting on a threatening voice, Leone said:
‘If you tell me the truth, I’ll give you three silver coins and let you go. However, if you continue lying to me, I’ll give you a good thrashing and throw you in the River Sarthe.’
The little urchin’s eyes filled with tears at the thought, but he replied astutely:
‘And why should I believe a smith when he says he has three silver coins? I’ve already got one from my client and he promised me another when I tell him what he wants to know, but he looks like a real lord.’
Without letting go of the boy’s ear, Leone reached into his purse with his other hand and took out three coins.
‘All right,’ the child muttered. ‘But let go of my ear. You’re hurting me, you brute.’
‘If you attempt to run off …’
The child interrupted him, shrugging his shoulders:
‘Why would I choose a dip in the Sarthe when I can earn proper money?’
Leone stifled a grin and released his ear, but remained ready to pounce at the boy’s slightest movement.
‘Who paid you to spy?’ Leone asked him again.
‘He offered me two silver coins to follow the Dominican.’
‘Do you know his name?’
‘No.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Very tall. A big man, bigger than you. And dark, with dark eyes, too. He wears his hair shoulder-length and dresses in fine clothes and carries a sword. A powerful man by the looks of him. I’d say he’s a baron, possibly even a count.’
‘What age?’
‘A lot older than you.’
‘What exactly did he ask you to do?’
‘To follow the inquisitor without being seen and find out where he lives.’
What was Artus d’Authon doing mixed up in this affair, for Leone was almost certain it was he? His aunt Éleusie de Beaufort had alluded briefly to Agnès de Souarcy’s meeting with her overlord just before the young woman’s arrest.
‘Where
are you supposed to meet him?’
‘At a tavern called La Jument-Rouge, it’s …’
‘I know where it is.’
Leone handed the boy the coins, which quickly disappeared under his tunic.
‘I advise you not to go back and warn your client in order to try to get the other silver coin or I’ll …’
‘I know … you’ll throw me in the Sarthe!’
The boy turned on his heel and vanished before Leone had decided what to do next.
Was Artus d’Authon a friend or foe? Now was not the time to worry about that.
Which of the buildings had Nicolas Florin slipped into? Leone did not believe that he had discovered he was being followed. He could do nothing but wait, crouched in the shadow of a nearby wall. Sooner or later the man would have to come out again.
A good half-hour went by, during which the knight managed to empty his mind of the endless calculations, theories, questions. Not thinking is a strenuous and exhausting exercise for a man of thought. Accepting nothingness, inviting it, becoming the void, is to allow oneself to experience infinity. Time then passes in a random way. The little barefoot girl who lifts her thick cotton dress, tied with a piece of string at the waist, and squats in the gutter to empty her bladder as she stares at you fills the whole universe. How much time passed before she stood up and ran off? A little ball of hemp blown across the cobblestones comes to a stop then rolls on for a few feet+ before stopping again then rolling again, until it reaches a wall where somebody’s foot treads on it and carries it who knows where; for a few split seconds that ball becomes the most important thing in the world.
Francesco de Leone almost didn’t recognise the beautiful Nicolas. He cut a dashing figure. He was without question one of the finest-looking creatures Leone had ever seen. His willowy body was perfectly suited to lay clothes. Indeed, it appeared Florin was well acquainted with the latest town fashions. He had swapped the black habit and long white cape of the Dominicans for a silk shirt, on top of which he wore a short tunic that set off his dark-purple leggings and breeches. Elegant Parisians referred to these as hauts-de-chausses and bas-de-chausses. Over his tunic he wore a bodice lavishly embroidered with gold thread, and a jacket of fine dark-green wool gathered at the waist by a belt covered in gold work and with slits in the sleeves to allow a glimpse of the bodice. The whole was topped off by a greatcoat, open at the front and sides, that would have been the envy of the finest lords, and a hood of a softer green than the jacket, which concealed his tonsure, and whose pointed end he wore hanging down in the style of the young dandies at court.
