by Andrea Japp
The dying woman tried feebly to resist, and groaned:
‘Let me die in peace. I am at peace.’
For the next quarter of an hour, the apothecary nun forced her to drink, ignoring her pathetic protestations and the gagging that made her cough and spit. Two novices took turns to fetch water from the kitchens. After Jeanne, whose strength was waning fast, had swallowed several pints of fluid, the apothecary nun stood up straight, the front of her robe soaked in water and bloody vomit. Pointing a threatening finger at Emma de Pathus and Yolande de Fleury, who had been standing silently, transfixed, beside the bed since the nightmarish scene began, she ordered:
‘Sit her up and keep her upright.’
The two nuns pulled Jeanne’s inert body into a sitting position.
‘You two,’ she commanded, turning towards the quaking novices, ‘open her mouth and keep it open until she starts vomiting.’
They all obeyed, incapable of uttering a word.
Annelette thrust her fingers down Jeanne’s throat, faintly disgusted by the fetid yet sweet smell of her breath, and fingered her uvula until the poisoned woman’s diaphragm began to contract. She waited until her hand was bathed in a flood of warm liquid from the intestines before releasing her sister, who was gradually regurgitating the contents of her stomach.
Half an hour later when they lay Jeanne back comfortably, her heartbeat was still irregular and her limbs were shaking, but she was having less difficulty breathing.
Éleusie followed Annelette down the corridor. Blanche de Blinot was leaning up against one of the pillars and weeping into her hands. She raised her head when she heard them coming and wailed:
‘I’m a coward. A cowardly old woman. I am so afraid of death. I feel ashamed.’
‘Blanche, do not be so hard on yourself,’ Éleusie sighed. ‘Death is a worry to us all, even though we know that a wondrous place awaits us beside Our Lord.’
Turning towards Annelette Beaupré, the old woman asked:
‘Will Jeanne die too?’
‘I don’t know. Hedwige was frailer and older than Jeanne. And she may have swallowed more of the poison. We won’t know until we have found out how they ingested it.’
‘But why?’ whispered the senior nun, sniffling.
‘We do not know that either, dear Blanche. And if I had formed a theory, it now needs reappraising in light of the two new victims’ identities,’ the Abbess suggested, thinking of the plans of the abbey locked in the safe.
For if the murderess’s aim was to steal them, then why poison Hedwige and Jeanne who did not have the keys? She did her best to comfort Blanche, adding:
‘Go and rest for a while. The novices are watching over Jeanne. They will inform us of any change in her condition.’
Château d’Authon-du-Perche, November 1304
Huddled up beside the great hearth, the only source of heat in the immense study chamber, Joseph de Bologne and Clément were performing an exercise in smelling. The old physician had pushed a beaker containing a foul reddish-yellow liquid under his apprentice’s nose. He said impatiently:
‘Come on, be more precise. What does it smell like?’
Stifling a desire to retch, Clément replied:
‘Oh … I think I’m going to be sick …’
‘Scientists aren’t sick, they consider, they use their noses. More importantly, they remember what they smell,’ Joseph interrupted him. ‘Use your nose, Clément. It is the doctor’s best tool! Come on, what is it?’
‘Rotten egg, very rotten egg.’
‘And where do we find this unpleasant odour? For let us not exaggerate – there exist far more evil-smelling ones.’
‘In the faeces of patients suffering from digestive haemorrhage.’
‘Good. Let’s try another more difficult one.’
‘Master …’ interrupted Clément, whom these experiments were powerless to distract from his one obsession, which he thought about day and night, sobbing in his bed when he knew he was alone: ‘Master …’
‘You’re thinking about your lady, aren’t you?’ said Joseph, who had consciously increased the number of experiments and lessons in the hope of offering his brilliant student some reprieve from his torment.
‘She scarcely leaves my thoughts. Do you think … that I shall ever see her again?’
‘I would like to believe that innocence always triumphs over adversity.’
‘Do you really believe that?’
Joseph de Bologne studied the boy, and was overwhelmed by an infinite sadness. Had he ever witnessed the triumph of innocence? Probably not, and yet he was ready to lie for the sake of this young girl disguised as a boy whom he had come to love as his only spiritual son:
‘Sometimes … Though generally when it is helped along. Come, my boy, let us continue,’ he said, striving to give his voice a ring of authority.
He crossed to the other side of the vast room and poured some amber liquid into another beaker before submitting it to Clément’s olfactory expertise:
‘What do we smell? What does that pleasant odour tickling the nostrils suggest?’
‘Apple juice. Pestis!87 The smell on plague victims’ breath. Well, the majority, others smell of freshly plucked feathers.’
‘Try your best to remember both smells. I am telling you, that dread disease has not finished with us yet. And what must you do?’
‘If a bubo forms, I must cauterise it with a red-hot knife, taking care to wear gloves, which I must incinerate, and to scrub my hands and forearms vigorously with soap. If the plague has infected the lungs, then there is nothing I can do except to avoid going within two yards of the victim. In effect, the plague victim’s saliva forms tiny bubbles, which are expelled into the air and breathed in by the person to whom the sufferer is speaking.’
The old physician’s wrinkled face beamed and he nodded. A good master doth a good pupil make.
Suddenly they both jumped. It felt as if a whole army had just invaded the room. Artus called over:
‘May I draw near without fear of contracting some deadly disease? What is that evil smell?’
‘Rotten egg, my lord.’
‘You scientists certainly do engage in some extraordinary activities. Esteemed doctor, I wish to speak to your assistant urgently.’
‘Should I leave the room, my lord?’
‘On the contrary, I will leave you to your evil smells and take him to my chambers, which are protected from such noxious vapours.’
Once they were inside the little rotunda, Artus went straight to the point:
‘I need your help, my boy.’
Clément could tell by the Comte’s solemn expression that this related to Agnès. For a split second he froze with fear. No. No. She couldn’t possibly be dead. In that case he would be dead, too, for his life depended so much on that of his lady.
‘I-is it very bad news?’ he stammered, doing his best to stifle the sobs that were rising in his throat.
‘It is not good, but no worse than yesterday or the day before, so do not begin to despair yet. Madame de Souarcy is still alive … But the torture will begin shortly.’
Artus looked murderously around the room, searching for something he could break, something he could smash to pieces in an attempt to calm his fury. He brought his fist down on the table, upsetting the inkpot in the shape of a ship’s hull. Clément stood still, watching the ink run slowly along the grain of the wood and drip on to the floor. Artus stood next to him and they both looked on in awe as the tiny dark stain spread ominously across the floorboards. Black ink, not red, Clément kept saying to himself. Ink, not blood, just ink. Even so, he pulled from his belt the piece of coarse cloth he used as a handkerchief, and rushed over to soak up the inky pool.
Artus raised his eyes, as though Clément’s simple gesture had broken the evil spell riveting their gaze to the floor. He continued where he had left off:
‘Florin must die, Clément. There is no other solution. He must die, and soon.’
/> ‘Give the order to saddle me a horse, my lord, and I’ll leave at once. I’ll kill him.’
The child’s blue-green eyes staring at him conveyed his fierce determination. And, strangely, Artus knew that he was capable of doing it, even if it meant being killed himself.
‘I will be the one to wield the sword, my boy. It is an old friend that has never failed me. What I need is someone to trail Florin, for he knows me. I thought I had found a little helper, but he vanished into thin air.’
Clément grew excited:
‘I can replace him. Just give the order, my lord!’
‘We leave for Alençon at dawn tomorrow.’
‘But it is more than twenty leagues+ from here … Will we arrive in … time?’
Clément stumbled over the last word, which sounded like a death sentence.
‘Twenty-three to be exact, and I’ll be damned if we don’t arrive in time! If we ride our horses hard, we’ll arrive the day after tomorrow at dusk.’
Vatican Palace, Rome, November 1304
The feeling of agonising numbness that scarcely left Camerlingo Benedetti was cut short by the arrival of an usher:
‘Your visitor is here, Your Eminence.’
A sigh of relief stirred Honorius. He felt as though this blessed announcement had finally allowed him to reach dry land, to leave behind the turbulent seas that had been buffeting him for the past few days and nights.
‘Give me a moment to say a short prayer and then show her in.’
The other man bowed and left.
And yet, the camerlingo had no intention of spending the time in quiet contemplation. He wanted to savour it, be aware of its every nuance.
Aude, the magnificent Aude. Aude de Neyrat. The mere sound of her name worked on him like a magic charm. The tightness that had gripped the prelate’s throat for months abated. He could breathe the almost cool air again, exhilarated. The insistent throbbing pain in his chest vanished, and for the first time in what seemed an age he dared to stand up and stretch without being afraid he might shatter.
To behold Aude, to smile at her. Unable to contain himself any longer, he rushed over to the tall double doors of his office and flung them open, to the astonishment of the usher, who was waiting outside with Madame de Neyrat.
‘Come in, my dear, good friend.’
The woman stood up with an exquisitely graceful movement. Honorius thought to himself that she was even more stunningly beautiful than he had recalled. She was quite simply miraculous. One of those miracles that occur once in a lifetime, and whose perfection leaves the onlooker humbled. A mass of blonde locks framed a tiny, angelic, perfectly oval-shaped face. Two almond eyes like emerald-green pools stared at him joyfully, and a pair of heart-shaped lips broke into a charming smile. Honorius closed his eyes in a gesture of contentment. That graceful figure, that domed forehead concealed one of the most powerful, most sophisticated minds he had ever encountered.
She walked towards him, her feet barely touching the ground, it seemed to him. Honorius closed the doors behind them.
Aude de Neyrat took a seat and smiled, tilting her ravishing head to one side:
‘It has been such a long time, Your Eminence.’
‘Please, Aude, let us pretend that time, which has scarcely left its mark on you while turning me into an old man, never really passed.’
She consented with an exquisite gesture of her pretty hand, and corrected herself:
‘Gladly … It has been no time at all, then, dear Honorius.’ Pursing her full lips, she declared in a more solemn voice:
‘Your letter delighted me at first and then, I confess, I found it troubling.’
‘Forgive me, I beg you. But I am plagued by worries, and no doubt it showed through in my words …’
The camerlingo paused and looked at her. Aude de Neyrat had led a turbulent life. Only a miracle could explain how she bore no signs of it. Orphaned at an early age, she had been placed under the tutelage of an elderly uncle who had quickly confused family charity and incest. The scoundrel had not enjoyed his niece’s charms for long, and had died a slow and painful death while his protégée stood over him devotedly. At the tender age of twelve Aude discovered she had a flair for poison, murder and deception, equalled only by her beauty and brains. An aunt, two cousins who stood to inherit, and an elderly husband had shared the same fate as the hateful uncle, until one day the chief bailiff of Auxerre’s men had become suspicious of the series of misfortunes befalling her relatives. Honorius Benedetti, a simple bishop at the time, happened to be in the town during her trial. Madame de Neyrat’s striking beauty had made him recall the follies of his youth, during which he would leave one lady’s bed, only to fall into the bed of another. He had insisted on questioning her, arguing that his robe would encourage a confession. She had confessed to nothing but had spun a web of lies which, as a connoisseur, had impressed him. In his view such cunning, such astuteness, such talent should not end up with a rope round its neck, still less burnt like a witch at the stake. He had moved heaven and earth, using money, threats and persuasion. Aude had been released from custody and cleared of all suspicion. She had been the prelate’s only carnal transgression since his renouncement of the world. He had joined her a week later in the town house she had inherited from the husband she had sent to an allegedly better world. For a moment, Honorius had been afraid that she would not willingly take part in his violation of the rule. He had been mistaken. And, as he had secretly hoped, she did not feel indebted or under any obligation to spend those few hours with him naked and sweating between the sheets. She had done him the honour of offering herself to him because he was a man, not her creditor. During these hours of perfect folly, they had discovered one another, sized one another up like two wild beasts of equal stature. They had made love as one makes a pact.
Typically, Aude had considered that the ends justified the means. Had she not confided during the early hours:
‘What else was I to do, dear man? Life is too short to allow it to be ruined by spoilsports. If only people were more sensible, there would be no need for me to poison them. I am a woman of my word and a woman of honour – admittedly in my own peculiar way. Consequently, my uncle, who believed he had the right to take away my innocence and my virginity, paid with his life. I had no say in the deal he struck over my young body and therefore I saw no need to ask his opinion regarding his death. Promise me that you are a sensible man, Honorius. I would hate it if you disappeared … You are far too special and precious not to be part of my life.’
He had roared with laughter at the charming threat. He had not had many reasons to laugh since; his life had veered out of control and become bleak and joyless. In the end, Aude’s cheerful vivacity revived the only memory that allowed him to breathe freely.
‘What I am about to tell you, my radiant Aude …’ he began before she interrupted him with a look of glee:
‘Must never leave this room? Surely you know me better than that, my dear man.’
He exhaled slowly. Could he have dreamed of a more perfect confessor than Aude? The one person he could trust. He closed his eyes and continued with difficulty:
‘Aude, my wonderful Aude … If only you knew … Benoît is dead and I am responsible. His death wounds me, gnaws relentlessly at my insides, and yet it had to be done.’
‘Why?’ she asked, apparently untroubled by his admission.
‘Because Benoît was a purist, whose obstinacy threatened to undermine the foundations of our Church. He had a dangerous dream and clung to his idea of evangelical purity at a time when we are threatened from all sides, at a time when, on the contrary, we need to strengthen the authority of the Church in the West. Dialogue, exchange and openness are no longer appropriate … Indeed, I ask myself whether they ever have been. A reform of the Church, a display of mea culpa would be fatal to us, I am convinced of it. Aude, we are the guarantors of an order and a stability without which mankind cannot survive. We are confronted by forces which I consi
der to be evil, and which are attempting to undermine our power. A number of European monarchs, including Philip the Fair, are intent upon weakening our authority, my dear. However, they are not my main concern. We will succeed in forcing them back. It is the others, I confess, who make me afraid.’
‘The others? What others?’ enquired the splendid young woman.
‘If I knew who they were, my worries would be over. I can feel them closing in on all sides. I see evidence of them in the proliferation of heresies, in the zealous austerity of some of the mendicant friars, in the benevolent attitudes towards their ideas on the part of nobles and burghers. I seek them out tirelessly … Already the hopes of the wealthy and erudite minorities rest with these reformers. The others, the poor, will soon follow suit, seduced by their grotesque theories of equality. We fend off and will continue to fend off heretical movements, but they are merely the outer expression of a deeper hatred of us and of what we stand for.’
‘And yet, the Inquisition has never seemed so active,’ his guest pointed out.
‘The Inquisition is a jack-in-the-box used to scare people. There have been past uprisings against it, proving that the people will react if they find a … leader.’ Honorius paused before continuing: ‘A leader or a miracle. Just imagine, my friend … Just imagine …’
‘What is it you are not telling me? I sense your fear and it alarms me.’
The young woman’s perceptiveness convinced him to tell her everything:
‘I am involved in a struggle which at times I fear will be in vain. I fear imminent failure. It would only take a miracle – a convincing miracle – to tip the scales.’
‘What kind of miracle?’
‘I don’t know. I doubt whether even Benoît understood the true nature of it, and yet he was ready to protect it with his life, as is one of his key combatants, the Knight Hospitaller Francesco de Leone.’
He looked at her intently for a moment before continuing:
‘If my explanations seem vague and uncertain, it is because for years I have been searching blindly. A text, a sacred prophecy fell into our hands and was spirited away. It contained two birth charts. After long years of futile searching and disappointment, Boniface became aware of the existence of an astronomical treatise written by a monk at the Vallombroso Monastery. The revolution contained within its pages could under no circumstances be propagated. The work was locked away in our private library. We were making headway in our calculations, which would have allowed us to decipher both charts, when the treatise was stolen by a chamberlain and sold to the highest bidder … Leone. The fact remains that we were able to interpret the first chart and, thanks to an eclipse of the moon, to find the person it referred to: Agnès de Souarcy.’
