The Lady Agnes Mystery, Volume 1

by Andrea Japp

  ‘I am convinced of it. We only need to send one of our lay servants. You mentioned that Yolande de Fleury’s father lives on his estate in the vicinity of Malassis. It is not so very far from here. A good day’s ride there and back.’

  ‘And what is his mission?’

  The tall woman sighed. She had no idea. And yet she instinctively persisted.

  ‘I confess that I am not quite sure.’

  ‘Annelette, I cannot send one of our servants out without telling him what I want him to do.’

  ‘I am aware of that, Reverend Mother … I want news of little Thibaut.’

  ‘News. Is that all?’

  ‘That is all. I am going back to the dormitory.’

  Éleusie de Beaufort had become prey to a strange obsession. Whereas once she had avoided entering the perilous library, now she felt the need to check and recheck its contents several times a day. She was driven by an impulse she was powerless to resist. The abbey plans were locked in the safe, and, unless she was fiendishly clever, the murderess could not possibly know of their existence. Even so, the Abbess always ended up lifting the wall hanging and opening the door leading to the place which at once fascinated and terrified her.

  She gazed at the oil lamp sitting on her desk. The feeble light it gave off was not enough to drive out the lingering shadows that seemed to cling to the shelves of books full of revelations. She rushed into the corridor and seized one of the resin candles. She needed a bright light if she was going to check the titles of all those books brimming with terrible truths.

  Éleusie sighed wearily. She must remain steadfast. Only when she had finished would she allow herself a few hours’ well-earned rest.

  She took her time inspecting the books shelf by shelf, raising her candle aloft for fear of setting alight these precious but terrifying works.

  The crouching figure’s eyes were trained on the high horizontal arrow-slit windows, which for the last few minutes had been visible owing to a flickering light marking them out from the rest of the wall. A triumphant smile lit up the figure’s face in the chilly gloom of the garden. The figure had been right and all this surveillance had finally paid off. The camerlingo would be pleased and, the figure hoped, would prove even more generous. The secret library was right next to the Abbess’s chambers. The figure would soon be in possession of the manuscripts so coveted by Honorius Benedetti. There was no longer any reason to kill Éleusie de Beaufort in order to appropriate the third and last key. The figure was quite happy to grant the Abbess this pardon. Not because her brutal murder would have saddened the figure, but because Éleusie was a stubborn link in the chain. She formed part of the shadowy spider’s web they were at pains to make out. The Reverend Mother might provide valuable information. That is, if she could be persuaded to reveal what she knew. Then again, they had every means of persuasion at their disposal!

  Rue de l’Ange, Alençon, Perche, November 1304

  Night was slowly falling over Rue de l’Ange. Should he see in this street name a sign or simply another quirk of fate?

  Francesco de Leone concealed himself in the porch of the handsome town house belonging to the late Pierre Tubeuf, the draper who had had the misfortune of crossing Florin’s path. He waited for a moment then walked across the quadrangular courtyard towards the imposing building. The occasional flickering light of a candle passing behind the drawn curtains of the first-floor windows showed that the beautiful Nicolas was somewhere inside the house he had requisitioned for his own use.

  The knight had not allowed himself to follow any plan, any strategy. His actions were guided by a sort of superstitious belief. It seemed essential to him that Florin should be the architect of his own doom, although he did not know where this conviction came from. It was not because he feared feeling any remorse, still less compassion. No. It was more like a vague intuition that nothing relating to or affecting Madame de Souarcy should be tainted or soiled, not even the death of her torturer.

  Leone’s eyes had filled with tears when Jean de Rioux had described to him the cellar, the outstretched body, the pale lacerated back, the blood dripping from her wounds. It had taken a moment for him to realise that he was crying. A miracle. This woman had already produced a miracle in him. How long had it been since he had felt that overpowering sorrow that was a sign of his humanity, proof that his soul had remained intact despite his being habituated to horror? He had witnessed so much death and suffering, had wallowed in it until it became invisible. Agnès’s torment had shocked him into remembering the twisted, burnt bodies, the gaping mouths, the chests pierced by arrows, the amputated limbs, the gouged-out eyes. He was infinitely grateful for these memories which, before he met her, had been packed down so tightly they had become an indistinguishable mass. He no longer wanted to forget; he refused to take the easy escape and become inured to horror.

  He walked towards the broad, gently rising steps leading up to the double doors of the hall and rapped with the heel of his hand.

  He waited, his mind clear.

  A crack appeared in the door before it swung wide open. Florin had changed into a sumptuous silk dressing gown embroidered with gold brocade which Leone was sure had once kept Monsieur Tubeuf warm on chilly evenings.

  ‘Knight?’ he asked in a deep voice.

  ‘I shall be leaving Alençon shortly, and … the thought of not saying farewell … saddened me.’

  ‘I would have been equally … sad had you left without saying farewell. Pray come in. Would you care for some wine? The … My cellar is well stocked.’

  ‘A glass of wine, then.’

  ‘This hallway is icy. Let me take you upstairs, knight. My principal rooms are on the first floor. I will join you directly.’

  The vast reception room with its roaring fire was magnificent. An abundance of candelabra cast a harmonious, almost natural light. The exquisitely carved chests, the elegant pedestal tables imported from Italy, the tall bevelled mirrors and the lush tapestries hanging on the walls were evidence of the former owners’ wealth. Leone sat in one of the two armchairs drawn up in front of the stone hearth. Florin returned carrying two Venetian glasses – a rare and splendid luxury seen only at the tables of the most powerful princes.

  He pulled the other chair up to face his guest and sat down, brushing his knees against those of Leone, who did not recoil. The inquisitor was filled with a new kind of excitement. He had hooked his fish, and what a fine catch he was. If he managed to seduce this man, who could possibly resist him? The complexity of this game, the subtlety it required, intoxicated him more assuredly than any alcohol. He murmured in a deep, soft, seductive voice:

  ‘I am … I was going to say honoured but suddenly the word displeases me.’

  ‘Moved?’ suggested Leone, leaning imperceptibly towards him.

  ‘Yes. Moved.’

  ‘As for me, I am stirred to the depths,’ Leone confessed, and the sincerity Florin perceived in the knight’s voice thrilled him since he misunderstood the reason for it.

  ‘Stirred to the depths?’ the inquisitor repeated, rolling the words greedily on his tongue. ‘Is it not remarkable that our paths should have crossed like this?’

  ‘Not really,’ Leone corrected, narrowing his bright-blue eyes.

  ‘Do you believe in fate?’

  ‘I believe in desire and in satisfying desire.’

  The long, slender hand, responsible for such torment, moved towards the knight’s face. He watched it caress the air, the flesh transparent and orange against the firelight. Leone closed his eyes for a moment and a smile spread across his face. He took hold of Florin’s wrist and stood up. The inquisitor followed suit and took a step forward so that his body was almost touching the Hospitaller’s.

  A sigh.

  Florin’s eyes, as deep as pools, widened and his mouth fell open without emitting any sound. He staggered backwards, staring down at the hilt of the dagger protruding from his belly, and gasped:

  ‘But why …’

  L
eone did not take his eyes off him. The other man pulled out the lethal blade and a flow of blood soaked the front of his fine dressing gown, making the gold brocade glisten.

  ‘You should be asking who, not why. For the sake of the rose. So that the rose may live.’

  ‘I don’t … You said … Stirred …’

  ‘I am stirred to the depths of my soul. She has stirred me for eternity. I was not mistaken.’

  Florin grasped the back of his chair with both hands to stop himself from falling. His thoughts were racing but he could make no sense of them.

  ‘Agnès?’

  ‘Who else? Do not even attempt to understand for it is beyond you.’

  ‘The camerlin—’

  ‘That evil pig, that vile executioner. There was no letter from the camerlingo. Jean de Rioux wrote the orders you received and the seal was taken from an ancient document in the library of a nearby abbey.’

  A crimson bubble burst at the corner of the inquisitor’s mouth, then another, followed by a string of ephemeral bright-red pearls. He coughed and a trickle of blood appeared and dangled from his chin. His features were twisted as the pain searing his insides exploded with renewed vigour. He groaned, stumbling over his words:

  ‘It hurts … It hurts so much.’

  ‘All those tortured ghosts will finally be at peace, Florin. Your victims.’

  ‘I … I beg you … I’m bleeding to death.’

  ‘What? Should I put you out of your misery? What compassion have you ever shown that you should merit mine? Give me a single example. I ask no more in order to spare you the agony of a slow death.’

  The blood was draining from the face that had once been so seductive. Leone wondered how many women, and men, had succumbed to the perfect mirage, only to discover the nightmare concealed within. How many had perished after an eternity of pain suffered at those long, slender hands? An infant’s cries brought him back to the man now lying crumpled up before the hearth.

  ‘It hurts … It hurts so terribly … I’m going to die, I’m so afraid … For pity’s sake, knight.’

  The image of those blue-grey eyes encircled by sickly shadows flashed through his mind. For her sake, for the sake of the incomparable rose whose petals he had once sketched in a big notebook, Leone picked up the bloodstained dagger. He leaned over the dying man, loosened the neck of his gown and with a single movement slashed his pale throat.

  A rattle, a sigh. Florin’s body shook violently then went limp. Francesco de Leone paused to consider the torturer’s corpse, searching deep inside himself to see whether this execution had given him any pleasure. None. Only a fleeting sense of relief. One beast was dead, but others would replace him, of this he was certain.

  He picked up his glass from one of the little Italian pedestal tables and placed it carefully on the mantelpiece. Florin had fallen on top of the other and the purplish wine had mingled with the red of his blood. He stooped to pull off the luxurious rings that adorned the dead inquisitor’s fingers. He kicked over one of the chairs, which fell on its side. He opened the blood-soaked dressing gown, baring the slender chest. This would give the appearance of a lovers’ tryst that had gone wrong or a bloody burglary. Leone considered the scene he had staged, then removed his soiled surcoat and threw it on the fire before walking out into the night.

  God would judge.

  As for his fellow men, the knight was counting on their tongues loosening now that they no longer needed to fear the inquisitor, and on their thirst for revenge.

  God would judge.

  Clairets Abbey, Perche, November 1304

  From the table perched on a dais that allowed a good view over the refectory, Éleusie’s gaze swept over the sisters, who were seated at two long planks of wood resting on trestles, their faces lit up by the flickering flames of the resin candles.

  The vast room would normally have been alive with the sound of whispering, inappropriate since meals were supposed to take place in silence. The odd misplaced giggle would normally have rung out, occasioning a call to order from the Abbess. The senior, cellarer and treasurer nuns would normally have shared the Abbess’s table, but Blanche de Blinot rarely left her steam room now and Hedwige du Thilay was dead. The only one left was Berthe de Marchiennes, who, divested of her habitual air of superiority, resembled the ageing, pathetic woman she really was.

  Éleusie de Beaufort had suggested to Annelette Beaupré that she occupy Hedwige’s empty seat so as to spare her daughters a further painful reminder, but the apothecary nun had declined her offer. It was easier for her to survey the others, to observe their reactions from her end of one of the trestle tables, and she was sure that the murderess would be more cautious of the hierarchy sitting up on their dais.

  Annelette Beaupré was keeping a close watch on Geneviève Fournier. The sister in charge of the fishponds and the henhouses was deathly pale, and the almost blackish-purple shadows under her big brown eyes betrayed the fact that she was not sleeping and not eating either, as she had swallowed next to nothing since Hedwige du Thilay’s horrific death. This stubborn refusal to eat, which many attributed to the close friendship the two women had enjoyed, troubled the apothecary nun. Undeniably they had been close, as were many of the other sisters, but surely not to the point of starving herself to death. Annelette glanced along the table and felt a pang of grief when her eye alighted on the sprigs of autumn flowers marking Adélaïde Condeau’s empty place, and that of Jeanne d’Amblin, who was recovering but still too weak to leave her bed.

  Annelette watched Geneviève lift her bowl of turnip, broad bean and bacon soup to her lips, only to set it down abruptly on the table, her hands trembling. She looked around fearfully before lowering her head and pressing the crumbs of black bread between her fingers. The apothecary nun had seen enough; Geneviève was starving herself to death because, despite all the precautions they had taken, she was terrified. Two novices were posted as lookouts at the entrance to the kitchens while the new sister in charge of meals, Elisaba Ferron, prepared the food. Elisaba had just completed her noviciate and taken her final vows. The middle-aged woman, the widow of a rich merchant from Nogent-le-Rotrou, had received Annelette’s backing for this post. She was burly enough to knock out anyone attempting to meddle with her pots. As for her stentorian voice, it struck fear into the hearts of more than a few when she placed her hands on her generous hips and boomed: ‘My name is appropriate. It means joy in the house of God the Father. Don’t forget it, God is joy!’ Nobody in their right mind would contradict Elisaba for, despite her loud generosity, she was made of stern stuff, having spent her married life shaking up lazy clerks and putting impudent customers in their place.

  Annelette perceived the worried, suspicious glances. They were all surreptitiously sizing one another up in an attempt to discover which familiar friendly face concealed the wicked beast. She watched the furtive glances flying around the room, pausing occasionally and silently wondering. Would their hitherto peaceable, relatively harmonious congregation survive the insidious sickness of suspicion? Annelette was unsure. Indeed, if she were honest, she would have to admit that what kept them together was, above all, the shared conviction that this enclosure protected them from the outside world. But death had climbed in among them by stealth, shattering the stout ramparts and their belief that the world’s madness could never enter there. In reality, though, what were the majority of the sisters most afraid of? Being poisoned or finding themselves alone and destitute on the outside with no household willing to take them into service? Faith had unquestionably guided the majority in their choice. And yet, even they must have realised by now that the abbey had been their only refuge. And what would she, proud Annelette, do? She preferred not to think about it. Nobody was waiting for her on the outside. Nobody cared what became of her. Her sole existence, her sole importance was concentrated within these walls. This diverse congregation of women, whose members infuriated, amused and only occasionally interested her, had become her family. She had no
other now.

  The meal ended in an uneasy calm. Only the sound of the benches scraping against the floor broke the oppressive silence. Annelette was the last to leave the table and she followed Geneviève Fournier. Once outside the refectory the sister in charge of the fishponds turned left, cutting through the guest house and across the gardens to go and check her fish and poultry once more before going to bed. She walked slowly, stooped forward with her head down, oblivious to her surroundings. It was dark, and Annelette followed at a few yards’ distance, taking care not to give her presence away. Geneviève crossed the cloisters and went past the relics’ room. She walked alongside the stables until she reached the henhouses, which were near the entrance to the orchards. She stopped in front of the makeshift wooden fence and stood watching her beloved hens. Annelette, who had also come to a halt, was filled with a strange tenderness. What was her sister thinking about as she stood in the dark, chill night? About Hedwige? About death? Finally Annelette took the plunge. She strode over to Geneviève, and placed her hand on the woman’s shoulder. The sister in charge of the fishponds and the henhouses jumped and stifled a cry. Annelette could see a look of terror in her eyes. Geneviève quickly regained her composure and let out a feeble laugh:

  ‘How fearful I must seem. You gave me such a start … Are you taking the air, dear Annelette?’

  The other woman studied her in silence for a moment before declaring:

  ‘Don’t you think the time has come?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Why are you so afraid of being the next victim that you are starving yourself?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ the younger woman snapped.

  ‘You know, or think you know, the cause of Hedwige’s murder and Jeanne’s near-fatal poisoning and that is why you fear for your life.’

  ‘I don’t …’

  ‘Be quiet! Can’t you see that as long as you say nothing the murderess will want to eliminate you? But the more of us you let into your secret the less reason she will have to silence you.’