The Lady Agnes Mystery, Volume 1

by Andrea Japp

  Clément followed Artus d’Authon through the streets of Alençon. How tall he was and what big steps he took, the child thought, as he did his best to keep up. All of a sudden Artus stopped, almost causing Clément to slam into his back.

  ‘He should come out soon. I’ll point him out to you. Follow him, and when you’ve discovered where he lodges make your way directly to La Jument-Rouge,’ he said, gesturing towards a nearby tavern, ‘and don’t try anything, do you hear?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘… I’m warning you not to disobey me and try anything foolish, Clément. You may be brave, but you’re not big or strong enough to take him on. I am. You will greatly harm your lady if you do not follow my instructions. Do you understand that if he slips through our fingers tonight, tomorrow Madame Agnès will die a thousand deaths?’

  ‘I know, my lord. And then will you kill him?’

  ‘I will. He has left me no other choice. It is a small matter in the end and I probably should have done it sooner. I could kick myself for hoping I could convince him.’

  The Inquisition headquarters were strangely abuzz with activity when they arrived. Clerks were darting in and out of the place and men-at-arms with sullen faces rushed about for no apparent reason. Amid the general mayhem, the Comte d’Authon, flanked by Clément, walked towards the main entrance and went in. A skinny young friar, whom Artus did not recognise, came running up to them.

  ‘M-my lord, my lord,’ he stammered, giving a quick bow. ‘He is dead. God be praised for doing justice. The wicked beast is dead.’

  Sensing the Comte’s bewilderment, he added:

  ‘Agnan, my name is Agnan. I was chief clerk to that evil inquisitor. I was there when you came and tried to reason with him. I knew it was a waste of precious time. But it doesn’t matter any more. He died as he lived, like a wicked sinner.’ Agnan almost shrieked: ‘God has passed judgement! His ineffable verdict has come down to earth like a revelation. The innocent dove, Madame de Souarcy, is free. Nicolas Florin’s other victims, too. The judgement of God requires all his cases to be closed, permanently.’

  ‘How did he die? When?’

  ‘Last night. At the hands of a passing drunkard. It seems he invited the man into his house, the house he extorted from some poor soul whom he tortured to death. There was a struggle, ending in that devil’s murder. Monsieur … We have witnessed a miracle … God intervened to save Madame de Souarcy, and … but it comes as no surprise to me. I looked into that woman’s eyes, she reached out and touched me with her hand and I understood …’

  ‘What did you understand?’ Artus asked calmly, for the young man’s exalted speech troubled him.

  ‘I understood that she was … different. I understood that this woman was … unique. I am unable to describe it in words, my lord, and you must think me out of my mind. But I know. I know that I have been touched by perfection and that I will never be the same again. He also knew. He emerged from her cell stirred to the depths, his eyes shining with the indescribable light.’

  ‘Who?’ insisted Artus, sure that the young man had not lost his mind, that his garbled speech concealed a profound truth.

  ‘Why, the knight of course … The Knight Hospitaller.’

  ‘Who?’ the Comte d’Authon almost cried out.

  ‘I assumed that you knew one another … I can tell you nothing more, Monsieur. With all due respect, please do not ask. No man has the right or the power to question a miracle. Madame de Souarcy is waiting for you in our infirmary. She has been through a terrible ordeal, but her courage is matched only by her purity. What joy you will feel in her presence! What joy … What joy I felt. Just imagine … She touched me, she looked straight into my eyes.’

  Agnan wriggled free from Artus’s restraining hand and ran off, leaving Artus and Clément speechless.

  Agnès was raving, although the friar who was looking after her reassured them as to her physical health. Lash wounds were quick to heal. On the other hand, Madame de Souarcy was suffering from a fever that required her to spend a few days in bed, where she would receive the best care. Clément and Artus sat at her bedside. Occasionally, she would murmur a few incomprehensible words before sinking back into semi-consciousness. Suddenly, she opened her eyes, sat up straight and cried out:

  ‘Clément … No, never!’

  ‘I am right beside you, Madame. Oh, Madame, I beg you, please get better,’ sobbed the child, his head in his hands.

  Artus’s heart was in his throat and his soul in torment; he was overjoyed that an alleged drunkard, whom he was certain was the Knight Hospitaller, had slain Florin, and at the same time devastated that the knight had got there before him. What a fool! He had tried to negotiate, to buy the man, when he should have stopped wasting time and unsheathed his sword. He had not saved Agnès, he had not earned her gratitude, and he would never forgive himself for it. He would have given his life for her, without hesitation. He was angry at the knight even as he felt grateful to him. Her other saviour had preceded him by a few hours, that was all, a few hours that had made all the difference. And that young friar Agnan, whose words Artus had not understood. Agnan, whose life had been illuminated because Agnès’s hand had brushed against his hand or cheek. And suddenly Artus understood. He understood that this extraordinary woman who had stolen his heart and soul was unique, just as the young clerk had said. He understood that her attraction went deeper than her outward intelligence, courage, charm and beauty. And yet even as he held her slender hand between his, he could not help but ask who this woman really was. Everyone who knew her had been transformed in a way that could not be explained by love: Agnan, Clément, the knight, he himself … to name only those he knew. Who was she really?

  In the days that followed tongues began to wag. Artus and Clément had found satisfactory lodgings at La Jument-Rouge. Everyone was talking, gossiping and conjecturing. The streets were alive with rumour and speculation. Even the local stoker and potter had revelations to make, tales to tell containing a mixture of truth and hyperbole. Nicolas Florin’s brutality, his cruelty, his corruption, his taste for riches became common knowledge. He was even accused of sorcery, of having sold his soul in exchange for power, and it was rumoured that he had held frequent black masses. The humble folk unleashed themselves upon this man whom they had at first adored, then feared and finally come to hate. The episcopate, which had hitherto turned a blind eye, finally intervened, decreeing that the Grand Inquisitor’s remains would not be buried in consecrated ground. This declaration reassured the masses, who, up until the day before, had bowed to Florin, also turning a blind eye to his notorious dealings, but now, no longer fearing reprisals, they turned against him as one.

  Agnès’s scars soon healed thanks to the constant attention of those around her. A few days after the death of her would-be executioner, she got out of bed and walked a few paces. Clément scolded her for rushing matters and Artus implored her not to overexert herself.

  ‘Come now, dear gentlemen, I’m not as fragile as you think. It would take a lot more than this to finish off a woman like me. Any doubts I might have had about that have been dispelled.’

  Despite the supplications of Artus, who longed for her to accept his hospitality, she decided to return directly to her manor in order to reassure her people and attend to the affairs she had been obliged to neglect.

  Château de Larnay, Perche, December 1304

  The girl shied away in terror. Her cheek was stinging and Eudes’s anger made her fear for her safety. A second blow sent her crashing into the door frame and she felt the blood streaming from her nose. She implored:

  ‘Master … I’ve done nothing wrong … kind master.’

  ‘Out of my sight, you whore! Vile whores, all of you!’ shrieked Eudes, screwing up the letter the servant had just brought.

  The young girl fled as fast as she could to get away from the madman’s fists.

  Eudes de Larnay was trembling with rage and regretted dismissing the servant girl. Be
ating her more would have brought him some relief.

  The fools! The unutterable fools!

  That wretch Florin had been handed this trial on a plate and had not managed to bring it to a successful conclusion. The fool had got himself stabbed by some brute – some drinking or orgy companion he had pulled from the gutter or from a cheap tavern. As for his gormless niece, who had nothing better to do than flutter her eyelids and prance about in her finery, she was too inept and stupid to have been seen fit to repeat what he had taken such pains to din into her. And as for that strumpet Mabile, who had led him on, made a fool of him, extorting his money with her lies. His entire household was useless, cowardly and stupid!

  A sudden wrenching pain dispelled his anger.

  Agnès … my magnificent warrior. Why must you detest me so? I hate you, Agnès, for you are always in my thoughts. You haunt me. You dog my days and my nights with your presence. I wanted you dead, yet what is there left for me if you die? He stifled the sob that threatened to choke him and closed his eyes. I love you, Agnès. Agnès. You are my festering wound and my only remedy. I hate you, I truly hate you.

  He snatched up the pitcher from the table and drank without filling his goblet. The wine trickled down his striped silk doublet. The alcohol stung his insides, reminding him that he had not eaten since the day before. But the effect of the liquor soon sated him.

  I have not finished with you yet, my beloved.

  He would think up some other ruse. Quite apart from his resentment and his insatiable lust, he had no choice. He had no choice. His own survival depended on it.

  Clairets Abbey, Perche, December 1304

  Yolande de Fleury was resting in the ground. Every day Éleusie went to her grave to pay homage to her memory. Her grief was eased slightly by the thought that after a few moments of terrifying despair, the sweet Yolande had realised that her little Thibaut could not be dead. At least this is what the Abbess hoped Yolande had continued to believe until the very end.

  Éleusie de Beaufort felt sure that Annelette was right. The sister in charge of the granary must have told her informant about the terrible scene that had taken place in the Abbess’s study. She must have assured her that she had not revealed her name to them. It had never occurred to her that the kindly bringer of good news was none other than the murderess. Yolande had not suspected for a moment that by relating these events she was signing her own death warrant, for the informant could not risk being denounced.

  The poor little angel had joined her son, and the day Yolande’s coffin had been scattered with earth Éleusie had made a promise to herself. She would find out who had lied to Yolande and why. She felt that her daughter would not find peace otherwise. She felt that little Thibaut, whom she had never met, was pleading with her to do it for his mother’s sake and his own. Suddenly, doing God’s work in however small a measure and standing firm against the tides of evil seemed more important to her than anything else. Yolande de Fleury’s informant was none other than the murderer of Adélaïde, Hedwige, Yolande herself, and of the Pope’s emissaries. And yet, curiously, it was the lies the accursed woman had told in order to lull Yolande into a false sense of security that had come, in Éleusie’s eyes, to represent an unforgivable sin. The Abbess had first wanted to eliminate any danger, to drive it outside the abbey’s walls, and then, if she could, to see that justice was done. Now, she demanded atonement for these sins. Nothing less than execution.

  The early-morning frost crunched beneath her feet as she walked back towards the main buildings. Before, an eternity ago, she had loved the peaceful indifference of winter. She would smile at the stillness of the snow that appeared to muffle every sound. The cold had not seemed to her unrelenting as it could be warded off by sitting beside a hearth or swallowing a bowlful of hot soup. That morning, she felt the deadly chill pierce her to the bone. She thought of all the deaths, all the creatures in the nearby forests that would perish before the advent of better weather. Death. Death was sliding, creeping, slipping all around. Her existence had become a graveyard and no amount of life would ever change that. She was the sole survivor in the mortuary that had implanted itself in her mind.

  A few snowflakes pricked the skin on her hands before melting. She paused. Should she go to the herbarium to see Annelette? No, she hadn’t the energy. Her study, however unwelcoming it might feel since the dreadful scene with Yolande, was still the only place where she could reflect.

  The bells of Notre-Dame Church were pealing out. Sudden cries and an acrid smell made her turn her head in the direction of the guest house. She ran towards the building. Flames were rising out of the arrow-slit windows and she could hear the blaze roaring inside. Fire. A bevy of nuns was following Annelette’s instructions and racing to fetch heavy pails of water. A human chain quickly formed. Pails, pans, every sort of receptacle passed from one pair of hands to the next. Annelette finally saw the Abbess and ran over to her, crying out:

  ‘It’s a diversion, I am sure. She is trying to divert our attention, but to what evil end I do not know.’

  It came to Éleusie in a flash: the secret library. She ran in the opposite direction as fast as her legs would carry her.

  The moment she opened the door and stepped into the cold room she sensed something was wrong. Her gaze fell upon the thick tapestry obscuring the tiny passageway and the door leading into the secret place. It seemed to be moving as though the biblical scene had come alive.

  Who? Who had discovered her secret? Who had entered there? Dear God, the forbidden works, the notebook belonging to Eustache de Rioux and Francesco! It must under no circumstances fall into enemy hands. So, she had been right all along. The sole intention of the poisoner was to lay her hands on these works.

  She searched frantically for any object she could use as a weapon. Her eye fell upon the stiletto knife she used to cut paper. She seized it and ran towards the hidden opening. A figure dressed in a heavy monk’s habit, a cowl drawn over its face to avoid recognition, turned towards the Abbess, then made a dash for the door leading into the main corridor. Éleusie gave chase, still brandishing the knife, but the figure aimed a blow at her throat that left her fighting for breath. The Abbess struggled to seize the volumes wedged under the figure’s arm, but to no avail. Bent double and gasping, Éleusie watched as the shadowy figure vanished at the end of the corridor. A sudden rush of energy she no longer thought herself capable of roused her, and she hurtled outside as though her life depended on it. She shouted at all the sisters she encountered who were on their way to help fight the fire:

  ‘Go and instruct the porteress nuns89 not to allow anybody out of the abbey under any circumstances. Failure to obey will be severely punished. This instant! Nobody must leave the abbey. That’s an order!’

  She herself raced to the main door and stirred the porteress, demanding that she bolt the heavy doors at once. The panic-stricken woman obeyed.

  Éleusie sighed and dug her fingers into the painful stitch in her side to try to ease it. She bent double in a fit of nervous laughter and gasped:

  ‘You’ll not escape, you wretch! You thought you had got the better of us, didn’t you, you vulture? I’ve got you now. I’ll crush you like the vermin you are!’ She turned towards the ashen-faced porteress and commanded: ‘I am reinstating the strict cloister without exception. Nobody is to leave here without an order signed by me and only me. Every, and I repeat every, sister whom I authorise to leave must have her body as well as her bundles and cart thoroughly searched. Without exception.’

  Éleusie suddenly turned on her heel and ran towards her daughters who were busy fighting the fire, snarling to herself:

  ‘The manuscripts will stay in the abbey. Hide them … hide them as best you can, I will find them! You’ll take them over my dead body.’

  Manoir de Souarcy-en-Perche, December 1304

  Agnès, who was still pallid and frail, looked at Clément and asked:

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘That we need t
o pay a visit to La Haute-Gravière, your health permitting.’

  ‘I shall decide whether my health permits. Stop fussing over me like a mother hen.’

  A joyous smile flashed across the child’s face:

  ‘So, Madame, you are my baby chicken now.’

  Agnès laughed and ruffled his hair. She loved him so much. Had he not constantly been in her thoughts she would never have survived her imprisonment at Alençon.

  ‘A big fat baby chicken, indeed!’ She grew serious again, continuing: ‘But we know nothing about the place, dear Clément.’

  ‘Indeed we do, Madame. I learned from my remarkable teacher, the physician Joseph de Bologne.’

  ‘Joseph again,’ Agnès joked. ‘Do you know, I think I am going to end up being jealous of that man?’

  ‘Oh, Madame, if only you knew him … You would immediately fall under his spell. He knows everything about everything.’

  ‘Gracious me! What a flattering description. You miss him, don’t you?’

  Clément blushed and confessed:

  ‘Never when I am with you, for that is where I always wish to be.’ She could see him fighting back the tears. ‘I was so afraid, Madame, so terribly afraid that I would lose you and never find you again. I thought I would die of sorrow a thousand times. And so, if I must choose, I prefer to stay here with you.’ He paused before adding: ‘Even so, Monsieur Joseph’s teaching is without parallel. The man has studied the world with his mind, Madame. He has so much knowledge of science. Is it not wonderful and incredible that he should consider me worthy of receiving it and be willing to answer so many of my questions? Moreover … he knows.’

  ‘What does he know?’ demanded Agnès, alerted by Clément’s sudden seriousness.

  ‘That I am not … I mean that I am a girl.’

  ‘Did you tell him?’