by Andrea Japp
A huge tear rolled down the face of the sister in charge of the fishponds and henhouses, and she stammered:
‘I can’t go on …’
‘Then tell me your secret. It is your only protection.’
Geneviève studied her. She so longed to believe her but was still so afraid.
‘I … I saw you take my eggs, a large amount of them. At first, I was so upset that I even considered telling our Reverend Mother. But I waited. I asked Hedwige’s opinion. It was only later, during the incident in the scriptorium when I saw you rubbing the soles of our shoes on the heating pans, that I understood the necessary part my eggs had played in the trap you had laid.’
‘I see. Hedwige knew about my … borrowing from your hens, and as she was good friends with Jeanne she almost certainly mentioned it to her.’
Geneviève nodded nervously and murmured in a faltering voice:
‘I am to blame … It’s my fault they were poisoned.’
‘No. Get that silly idea out of your head. Go back now, Geneviève. Go back and eat something. I will inform our Reverend Mother of this conversation. I advise you … I advise you to confide in some of the sisters about what has been worrying you.’
‘But the poisoner … I might tell her.’
‘That’s precisely what I’m hoping. If she planned to get rid of you in order to stop you from talking, she’ll realise it’s too late and give up.’
A look of relief appeared on the diminutive sister’s face and she flung her arms around Annelette who, embarrassed by this effusiveness, carefully extricated herself, smiling apologetically:
‘I am not accustomed to such displays of affection.’
Geneviève nodded and confessed:
‘Dear Annelette. I think that many of us have misjudged you. You seem so severe …’ she added with a sigh. ‘And yet you are without doubt the bravest, most intelligent woman I have ever known. I wanted to tell you that.’
With this she left, heading towards the gloomy buildings silhouetted against the moonlit sky.
Annelette stayed behind, watching the hunched figures of the hens asleep in their shelter. She did not doubt for a second the veracity of Geneviève’s story. And yet she felt convinced that it didn’t stand up either. Assuming Hedwige had mentioned Geneviève’s concerns about her eggs to Jeanne, it followed that Jeanne must then have told somebody else in order to explain why both women had been targeted by the poisoner. Unless the two had shared food or drink that was only meant for Hedwige. The apothecary decided to put her mind at rest before going to bed. She went up to the dormitory, still deserted before compline, and entered Jeanne’s tiny curtained cell. The extern sister was dozing. Annelette’s foot knocked against something that made a hollow sound. She looked down and saw an empty soup bowl. Good. Jeanne was eating again and would soon recover her strength. She picked it up and went over to the sleeping woman’s bedside. Something cracked under the thick leather sole of her shoe, and she was concerned lest the sharp noise rouse her sister. The hubbub of the other sisters returning to their cells after compline was sure to wake her and she would come back to talk to her then.
She left quietly, pulled the drapes closed behind her and went to the kitchen to return the soup bowl. It was then that she became aware of something squeaking as she walked. She looked under her shoe, assuming she must have picked up a pebble from the garden. A tiny object glistened in the darkness. She tried to dislodge it and cried out in pain. At first she saw nothing. It was only when she went and stood under one of the lights in the kitchen that she noticed that her finger was bleeding. Upon closer inspection of her shoe she realised that the pebble was in fact a thick shard of glass. How had it got there? There was very little glass in the abbey. Only the scriptorium windows were glazed, and as far as she knew none of them was broken. Holding her finger above the sink, she doused it with water from a ewer, then bathed it with liquor made of thyme, rosemary, birch and sage,88 a phial of which she carried in her belt at all times. A discreet cough made her swing round. A shy novice leaned forward and murmured:
‘Our Reverend Mother wishes to see you. She is waiting in her study.’
The young woman disappeared immediately and Annelette spent a few moments dressing the tiny wound with a strip of linen before joining the Abbess in her study.
When she walked in, Éleusie rose to her feet, an inscrutable look on her face. Annelette raised her eyebrows quizzically.
‘I have just received a most astonishing piece of news. I still do not know what to make of it. It feels as though the more we progress, the less I understand.’
Annelette waited. Something in the Abbess’s manner intrigued her, alarmed her even. Éleusie raised her impossibly dainty hand to her brow and sighed:
‘The child … little Thibaut de Fleury … He died nearly two years ago, a few months after his grandfather.’
Annelette felt her knees go weak. She slumped down onto the chair opposite the desk and breathed:
‘Oh dear … But …’
‘That was my first reaction, too, daughter. We have come up against a series of impossibilities. Why bring tales of a thriving happy childhood to his mother in that case? Who would be capable of such a monstrous act? And why did nobody notify her of her father’s and then her son’s deaths?’
‘I am at a loss,’ Annelette confessed. ‘Above all, I don’t know what to do. Should we inform Yolande that she is the victim of a grotesque farce?’
‘And risk it killing her?’
‘And risk it killing her … but also perhaps forcing her to give us her informant’s name,’ corrected the apothecary.
‘Do you think that this informant is acting out of spite or is she simply passing on to Yolande information communicated to her by a third person?’
‘I have no idea, and the only way of finding out is to discover her identity.’
Another silence descended. Annelette tried to bring order to the chaos of her thoughts, to find a link between the disparate, seemingly nonsensical elements. Éleusie de Beaufort was overwhelmed by an intense fatigue. She felt herself withdraw. Her world was gradually being reduced to ashes and she could only contemplate the wreckage. By dint of a supreme effort of will, she ordered:
‘Go and fetch Yolande.’
Annelette found the sister in charge of the granary in the steam room folding bed linen with the guest mistress, Thibaude de Gartempe. Yolande stared at her coldly when she passed on the Abbess’s request. The little woman, who had always been so cheerful, had not forgiven the apothecary nun for her suspicions. She followed her in silence and, much to Annelette’s relief, did not even ask the reason for the interview.
Éleusie was standing, leaning back against her desk as though steeling herself for an attack. Yolande could tell from the concern on her face that something terrible had happened.
‘Reverend Mother?’
‘Yolande … my dear child … Your … Your father died nearly two years ago.’
Yolande lowered her eyes and murmured:
‘Dear God … May his soul rest in peace. I hope he found it in his heart to forgive me …’ Suddenly she asked: ‘But … What about my son? What about Thibaut? Who looks after him now? I was my father’s only child.’
‘Your informant did not tell you, then?’ the apothecary nun cut in.
Yolande turned towards her, a hard, inscrutable expression on her face, before saying through gritted teeth:
‘I would prefer not to have to talk to you. I’ve never liked you, although I never expected to have any reason to distrust you.’ She turned back to the Abbess, her voice softening again:
‘Reverend Mother, pray tell me, who is looking after Thibaut?’
It was Éleusie’s turn now to lower her gaze. Annelette barely recognised her voice as she uttered the terrible words:
‘He joined your father shortly afterwards.’
Yolande did not understand what her Reverend Mother had just said to her. She insisted, puzzled:
‘He is dead, my dear child.’
An eerie smile appeared on the lips of the sister in charge of the granary as she leaned towards the distressed woman and asked:
‘I don’t … What are you saying?’
Éleusie felt a wrenching pain in her chest and she repeated in an almost aggressive tone:
‘Thibaut is dead, Yolande. Your son died nearly two years ago, a few months after his grandfather.’
Annelette had the impression that Yolande’s life was draining out of her as she watched the woman crumple. A strange sound like wheezing bellows filled the room, followed by a moan that gradually grew louder and louder until it exploded into a scream. Yolande whirled round in ever-faster circles, clawing at her face, unable to stop the piercing scream rising from her throat and pervading the room seemingly without her needing to take a breath. She slumped to her knees, panting uncontrollably as though she were choking to death. Annelette and Éleusie stood motionless, staring at her dumbstruck. How many minutes passed, filled only by the frenzied sobs of a grieving mother, the groans of a dying animal?
Suddenly the groaning stopped. Yolande looked up at them with crazed eyes, her face twisted with rage. She got to her feet using both hands. Éleusie rushed over to assist her, to embrace her, but Yolande leapt backwards, pointing her finger at her and snarling:
‘How could you …? Cruel traitress, you’re no better than your henchwoman, the apothecary. A couple of nasty, evil madwomen.’
Éleusie, incredulous, stepped back from her daughter. Yolande continued raging at her, and Annelette, afraid she might attack the Abbess, prepared to intervene.
‘How dare you invent such a despicable lie? Did you have to sink to such depths? Do you think I am a fool? You made up this monstrous story in the hope that I would give you the name of the kind friend who brings me news. Never! I can see through your wicked ploy. And do you know how? Because my little boy is with me every second of the day. Because if he had died, I would have died instantly in order to be with him. Wicked monsters! You will be cursed for this!’ She interrupted herself, clasping her hand to her mouth to stifle a hysterical laugh. ‘I demand, Reverend Mother, that you request my immediate transfer to another of our order’s abbeys. I wish to flee as soon as possible the stinking pit you and your disciples have dug in this place. I am sure I will not be the only one to demand a transfer. Others have seen through your despicable scheming.’
Annelette thought that Yolande had finally tipped over into madness. She interceded to try to calm her:
‘Yolande, you are mistaken. We …’
‘Shut up, you demented poisoner! Do you suppose I don’t know that you are the culprit? Oh, you are very clever and cunning, but you can’t fool me.’
This accusation so took the apothecary nun by surprise that she was incapable of reacting. She tried, however, to reason with her sister:
‘You don’t understand … If I am right, your informant … well, it wouldn’t surprise me if she was the poisoner we are tracking down. If so, then your life is in danger.’
The other woman hissed:
‘A clever try, to be sure, but you’ll have to do better than that to convince me. Murderess!’
Yolande flew out of the Abbess’s study as if the devil were on her tail.
Annelette turned to Éleusie and murmured:
‘I think she has lost her mind.’
The Abbess let out a sob and groaned:
‘Dear God, what have we done?’
Annelette grappled with her own panic. For the first time in her life the tall imperious woman doubted herself. The accusations hurled at her by the sister in charge of the granary – during an unconvincing fit of grief – were unimportant. What was important was the crippling pain she and the Abbess had inflicted upon her. What mattered was the plan Annelette had thought up in order to force her to confess the name of her informant. She was filled with an excruciating sense of shame and heard herself say, almost imploringly:
‘Reverend Mother, may I as an exception sleep in your chambers? I will make a bed on the carpet in your study. I realise that …’
Her apothecary daughter’s eyes, brimming with tears, her trembling lip and quivering chin spoke louder to Éleusie than any words. She agreed in a faltering voice:
‘I dared not propose it myself. We are so alone tonight. And yet, Annelette, there is a battle raging outside, a merciless battle. I bitterly regret the pain we have caused Yolande, but she had to face the terrible truth, no matter what. Thibaut is dead and her informant has been lying to her for two years for reasons that are still unclear to me. In addition … And may God forgive me for what is not heartlessness on my part, for I assure you that my heart bleeds for that poor grieving mother … May God forgive me, but we are all in peril and Yolande’s loss changes nothing. That poor little boy joined his Creator two years ago … Our lives are in danger today or perhaps tomorrow. We will mourn our dead later. The beast must be killed first, and quickly.’
Annelette sighed and walked over to her Mother Superior, hands outstretched, and whispered:
‘Thank you for voicing what I no longer dared to think.’
*
Adèle de Vigneux, the granary keeper, woke up shivering. The thin coverlet had slipped off her bed. She felt for it in the gloom, stifled a yawn and blinked, groggy from sleep. The dormitory was quiet except for the sound of breathing echoing from one end of the huge, icy room to the other. Occasionally somebody moving or coughing broke the monotonous rhythm. A loud snoring rose above the other sounds. It was Blanche de Blinot. Adèle de Vigneux smiled. Age seemed to protect Blanche from troubled dreams.
The young granary keeper pulled the coverlet over her and curled up snugly. Just as she drifted back into oblivion, a silhouette appeared behind the curtains around her cell.
Night was still keeping dawn at bay when they awoke to prepare for lauds.+ Adèle pulled on her robe and adjusted her veil, her eyelids heavy with sleep. She drew back the curtain round her tiny cell and was surprised by the silence that prevailed in the neighbouring cell. Yolande de Fleury was still asleep. She had seemed so agitated the night before that Adèle had enquired after her wellbeing, only to be sharply rebuked. The other woman was so overwrought that the younger woman had not insisted. Yolande had said:
‘Those two madwomen think I’m a fool but they’ll soon discover how wrong they are. I would have felt it, you see. Those are things that a … I mean they are in the blood. Good night, Adèle. Please don’t ask me to explain. I am in a foul mood and would hate to lose my temper with you, who have done nothing.’
Adèle paused. Perhaps a good sleep had helped her sister regain her composure. She pulled aside the drape and whispered:
‘Yolande dear, Yolande … It’s time to get up.’
There was no reply. She took a step forward. Something about the position of the sleeping woman alarmed her. She touched the hand lying on top of the coverlet.
A scream rang out through the dormitory. The nuns all stopped what they were doing and looked at one another. Berthe de Marchiennes was the first to emerge from this dreamlike trance. She rushed over to Adèle’s cell. The young woman was repeating the same words, like a litany:
‘Her hand is ice-cold … Her hand is ice-cold, it isn’t normal, she’s ice-cold, I tell you …’
Berthe drew back the cover sharply. Yolande de Fleury was lying with her mouth wide open. Purple-red scratch marks disfigured the pale skin on her neck. One of her legs was dangling over the side of the bed.
The cellarer nun closed the dead woman’s eyes, turned to Adèle de Vigneux and said in a soft voice:
‘She is dead. Please be so good as to fetch our Reverend Mother and Annelette Beaupré.’
Adèle stood rooted to the spot, her eyes moving between Berthe and the ice-cold corpse.
‘That’s an order, Adèle. Go and inform our Reverend Mother immediately.’
The yo
ung woman suddenly seemed to emerge from her stupor, and disappeared. Berthe sat down on the edge of Yolande’s bed. She clasped her hands together in prayer:
‘We are your humble devoted servants. Do not forsake us.’
Alençon, Perche, December 1304
The horses were exhausted and their riders scarcely any fresher by the time they reached the town of Alençon at dusk. The destrier, Ogier, was tossing his head and snorting; a cloud of vapour surrounded the stallion’s flared nostrils and his chest heaved with the effort of breathing. Clément’s mare, Sylvestre, quivered with tiredness, almost prancing as she walked, as though she were nervous of stumbling. Artus patted the neck of his magnificent mount and murmured:
‘Steady! Steady! My brave steed. Our journey is done and I have found fine lodgings for you. My heartfelt thanks, Ogier. You are an even hardier beast than when I broke you in.’
The horse raised his head, shaking his pitch-black mane and flattening his ears in exhaustion.
Clément jumped down from his mare and stroked her muzzle – he was no less grateful to her for this punishing race against time, which was running short.
The ostler arrived to take the exhausted animals to be groomed. He tugged roughly on Ogier’s bit and the horse threatened to rear up.
‘Whoa, you oaf! Nobody manhandles my faithful steed’s mouth like that!’ Artus shouted. ‘Show him a little respect or he’ll buck you at the first opportunity, and quite rightly. The same goes for the mare. Be careful. You can’t ask an animal to give its all and then treat it like a beast of burden. These creatures have nearly killed themselves to get us here at breakneck speed. Treat them in the manner they deserve – and for which I am paying you handsomely – or you’ll have me to answer to.’
The ostler did not need telling twice and gently cajoled the two mounts until they consented to walk on.
