The Lady Agnes Mystery, Volume 1 (15 page)

T
he pitch-black stallion pawed the ground while its rider, a shadowy figure wrapped in a brown woollen cloak, scanned the gloomy forest in search of his prey. A shiny metal claw on the end of his right hand gripped the reins. The ghostly figure sat up in his saddle and gave a grunt of disgust. This time, the fools had chosen a slip of a girl as a messenger. Did they really think she stood more of a chance than the men they had sacrificed up until then? The fools. And yet, having tracked her for more than half an hour, the ghostly slayer’s contempt was gradually giving way to impatience, even to a sense of unease. The young girl moved swiftly and noiselessly. How could she not be exhausted? Where was she hiding, in which piece of undergrowth? Why had she not given in to her panic like the others before her? For they had not all been poisoned to the point of delirium. Why did she not make a run for it in a pathetic attempt to flee?

The figure tensed his calf muscles against the horse’s flanks. The animal shifted restlessly, sensing the doubt creeping into the mind of its master.

What had brought this girl to Arville? Was her mission related to the Templar commandery? Hitherto all papal messages had passed through Clairets Abbey. The ghostly figure began to grow angry. He hated straying from his habitual hunting ground. He tried to calm himself by imagining what effect killing his first female would have on him. Would her face register the same expression of terror when she saw the metal claw? Would a woman’s flesh tear more easily than a man’s? Let it be done. Night was falling and the journey back was a long one.

The robed phantom scoured the brambles, shrubs and thickets. All the scheming, lies and murders he had been forced to tolerate and then to accept. For he did not revel in them, that was not his vice. Killing brought him neither pleasure nor displeasure. At best it was a hazard of the job, and at worst an unavoidable part of his mission, and if there was no other way …

The years of bitter disappointment, humiliation and needless hardship had placed his life on its present course. The exhilarating feeling of no longer being an insignificant person among others had achieved the rest. For the first time his existence had meaning, was becoming pivotal, and little did it matter in the end what cause he served. For the first time, he was no longer the victim of power but the one wielding it.

Lying flat on the forest floor some twenty yards from the horse’s hooves, concealed under a mass of ferns, Esquive watched her pursuer, who had begun tracking her before she was able to deliver the message she was carrying. She had known of the dangers involved when she accepted the mission. Why had they chosen novices as messengers before sending her? The idea of taking a life was so alien to them that they preferred to sacrifice their own. Not she, who was a redoubtable swordswoman thanks to her father. The archangel Hospitaller would also have known how to fight the phantom and his pitch-black stallion, but he was still so far away. What did he remember of their meeting years before? Very little no doubt – at least with regard to her.

Esquive concentrated all her attention on the horse once more as it nervously sidestepped a few paces then came to a standstill. The evil phantom was growing anxious and communicating his alarm to the horse.

In spite of her faith, the strength of mind she had inherited from her father, and her immeasurable love for the archangel
of Cyprus, Esquive had been seized with dread when she first caught sight of the enormous black stallion rising out of the evening mist. The animal had hurled itself at her and the spectre had raised his hideous gloved hand.

She had fled, her suppleness and speed giving her a head start. She had dug herself down into the earth and remained there motionless, like a root, in order to catch her breath and recover her presence of mind.

She could not allow herself to die now. She was less important than the information she was carrying. What then? Then God would decide. Death mattered little to her for she would be taking her archangel of flesh and blood with her.

At first the phantom saw only two pale amber pools, two almost yellow pools. Two immense eyes. Then a mane of long dark wavy hair. Finally a tiny heart-shaped mouth and skin as pale as moonlight. The command rang out even as a slender hand drew a short sword from a belted scabbard.

‘Dismount. Dismount and fight.’

This unexpected reversal of fortune gave the phantom cause to hesitate. The young girl continued in a startlingly deep voice:

‘Do you want my life? Come and take it. It will cost you dearly.’

What was happening? Nothing had gone according to plan. What came next was so unexpected it caught the phantom off guard. The girl hurled herself at the horse, brandishing her sword, and thrust the sharp blade into the powerful chest of the animal, which whinnied in pain and surprise and threw its rider, rigid with shock.

A fierce joy made Esquive’s strange eyes shine even brighter. She smiled, stepped back a few paces, and stood with her legs apart, ready to fight.

The phantom heaved himself up. Fear. The fear he had believed he could make vanish forever pervaded him again. That dreadful fear of death, of suffering, of being nothing again. He removed his glove, which felt ridiculous now, and tentatively drew his dagger. He knew how to fight, of course, but the girl’s posture informed him he was dealing with an expert swordswoman.

He cast a desperate glance around him, choked by the self-loathing which up until a few minutes before he had believed himself rid of. He was a miserable coward, a weakling who had become drunk on the power of others, mistaking it for his own.

He hated the girl. She was responsible for resuscitating his past. She would pay for it; she would pay for his self-loathing. One day, he would take pleasure in killing her, in hearing her scream, then whimper, then die. One day. Soon.

Esquive sensed her enemy was about to flee. She hesitated a fraction of a second too long between her anger, her desire to slay the one who had killed so many of their own, and the overarching importance of her mission. Did the phantom notice?

He bolted towards the big black stallion that had come to a halt a few dozen yards away, not quickly enough though to avoid the broad blade thudding into his right shoulder. The pain made him cry out, but fear and loathing drove him on. He heaved himself into the saddle with his left hand, and horse and rider vanished into the dark night of the forest.

T
he first days of July had brought with them a sweltering heat even more terrible than the one people had endured in June. The air seemed so rarefied that breathing it in required an effort. No breeze stirred to offer even a moment’s reprieve.

Cardinal Benedetti had been overcome by the merciless heat. He had dozed off at his desk, his forehead resting on his left hand, his nose on the beautiful mother-of-pearl fan.

The figure paused and strained his ears. He was carrying a small basket, the arch of which was decorated with a white ribbon. The anteroom was empty, it being lunchtime, and the Archbishop’s breathing was calm and regular. The figure glanced at the half-empty goblet of macerated sage and thyme, which it was the Cardinal’s custom to drink every afternoon as a remedy against bloating and wind. The taste was unpleasant enough to mask the bitterness of the dose of powdered opium administered in order to induce extreme drowsiness.

Without a sound, without even stirring the air, the figure walked behind the desk inlaid with ivory, mother-of-pearl and turquoise. A gloved hand lifted a tapestry, which depicted a shy diaphanous Virgin surrounded by hovering angels, and concealed a low passageway between two thick walls. At the far end was the Pope’s council chamber.

The figure stooped and crossed the ten yards separating him from the conclusion of his mission.

The vast chamber was empty, as predicted. Benoît XI had not yet returned from his midday meal. He was not known for his vices, with the exception of his fondness for food, especially
anything that reminded him of the pleasant years he had spent as Bishop of Ostia.

The figure moved forward, crossing the luxurious carpet with its purple and gold motif that covered almost the entire expanse of marble floor. The consular table evoked the Last Supper and was dominated by the heavily ornate papal chair perched on a white dais in the centre. As he set down the basket directly opposite it on the table he grimaced from the pain he still felt in his shoulder. Figs. Splendid, perfectly ripe figs. Nicolas Boccasini had been very partial to them before he became Benoît.

The afternoon meeting began late as a result of Benedetti needing to be roused. His face had a sickly pallor and his head was swimming. As for his garbled speech, it shocked the others coming from the lips of a man renowned for his oratory skills. Nevertheless, the Pope listened attentively to his Cardinal’s counsel. Honorius was undoubtedly the only friend who had remained true since his election. He was all the more grateful because the prelate had made no secret of his admiration for Boniface VIII. Benoît was ready to admit that he possessed neither the authority nor the Olympian nature of his predecessor, nor did this man whose eyes filled with tears at the evocation of Christ’s torment or Mary’s flight share the same imperial vision for the Church. And so the Cardinal’s unfailing support, at first invaluable to him, he now cherished.

The Pope was uneasy. Guillaume de Nogaret’s excommunication would greatly displease the King of France. And yet he had to show his authority. A failure to administer punishment would betray his fear of the ruthless monarch, and might further undermine their political influence. Honorius Benedetti had persuaded him that a direct attack on Philip the Fair could prove suicidal. Nogaret, on the other hand, made a good scapegoat.
Benoît listened to each of his counsellors in turn as he ate his figs. His discomfort was such that they seemed unusually bitter and he did not derive his customary pleasure from them.

T
hey left Rue de Bucy shortly after none.

The Knight Hospitaller Francesco de Leone, his head bowed, followed two steps behind Giotto Capella as a mark of subordination.

The construction work on the Île de la Cité palace requested by Saint Louis having not yet commenced, all the state powers were housed under the roof of the forbidding Louvre citadel, located just outside the city walls near the Saint-Honoré gate. They crowded as best they could into what remained the simple keep built by Philip II Augustus to centralise the Ministry of Justice, the Courts and the Exchequer.

They proceeded down Rue Saint-Jacques, which took them as far as the Petit Pont, and from there crossed Île de la Cité until they reached the Grand Pont, still known as the Pont au Change, which opened onto Rue Saint-Denis. Then they turned left, crossing to the Right Bank and backtracking in order to arrive at the Great Louvre Tower. A motley crowd of merchants, fishermen from the Seine, passers-by, beggars, women of easy virtue and street urchins jostled, called out and hurled abuse at one another in the maze of narrow streets filled with the stench of refuse. Metal-beaters
25
and millers blocked the alleyways with their handcarts, arguing over who had arrived first and therefore had right of way.

Giotto complained – more out of habit than because he hoped to engage his silent companion in conversation:

‘Look at these encumbrances! It is growing steadily worse! Will they ever get around to widening these bridges? The Louvre
is but a few hundred yards from Rue de Bucy as the crow flies, and yet we have walked thrice that distance.'

The Knight was content to retort in a good-natured voice:

‘Are there not boatmen who ferry passengers and goods between the Louvre and the Tour de Nesle?'

Capella glanced at him with a hangdog expression before admitting:

‘Yes … but they take your money.'

‘Is avarice to be counted among your vices, then? And there was I thinking that the frugal meals you have been sending up to me were a sign of your consideration for my health.'

Capella was not about to pay for two crossings on top of everything else! The pain of his gout was throbbing in his foot and in his calf up to the knee, but it couldn't be helped, they would have to walk slowly.

The usher's pompous expression betrayed the satisfaction he derived from his lowly position. They waited in Monsieur de Nogaret's anteroom for a good half-hour in stony silence.

Finally they were shown in. Leone found himself face to face with their gravest enemy, for this could not be the same Guillaume de Plaisians whom Giotto had described as a handsome fellow. The man of at least thirty years of age who was seated behind the long cluttered table that served as a desk was small, almost punylooking. He wore a fine indigo felt bonnet that covered his head and ears, sharpening an already emaciated face, out of which stared two intense eyes rendered almost repulsive by their lack of eyelashes. Despite the vogue of the period for extravagant and ostentatious dress, and the fashion for shorter men's clothes, Nogaret had adhered to the long austere jurist's robe. Over it he wore a sleeveless coat open down the front, whose only 
embellishment was a fur trim.
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A fire blazed in the hearth and Leone wondered whether Nogaret might not be doing them the kindness of suffering from some serious ailment.

‘Pray, have a seat, Giotto, my good friend,' Guillaume de Nogaret bade him.

Francesco remained standing, as befitted a moneylender's clerk. Finally, the jurist appeared to notice him and, without so much as a glance in his direction, enquired:

‘Who is your companion?'

‘My nephew, the son of my dearly departed brother.'

‘I did not know you had a brother.'

‘Who does not, my Lord? Francesco. Francesco Capella. We have every reason to be proud of our nephew …'

Nogaret, who found polite conversation tedious and who was not renowned for his drawing-room manners, listened with a forced smile. The thirty thousand pounds he was hoping to borrow from the usurer were worth a small amount of indulgence.

‘… for three years he was chamberlain to our dearly departed Holy Father, Boniface …'

A spark of interest lit up the strange staring eyes.

‘… and then a scandal involving a woman – a brawl. In brief, a fall from grace.'

‘When was this?'

‘Not long before the death of our beloved Pope – God rest his soul.'

Nogaret nodded, adding in a bitter voice:

‘If indeed His judgement will wash away so many sins.'

Nogaret was a man of faith, a rigorous faith that had made him loathe Boniface, whom he considered unworthy of the greatness of the Church. Unlike his predecessor Pierre Flote, who was intent on ridding the monarchy once and for all of the continual
interference of the Pope's authority, Nogaret's aim was to allow the King to provide the Church with a faultless representative of God on earth. Leone knew of his role in the great religious disputes that had shaken France. Nogaret had subsequently abandoned the corridors of power and come out into the light of day. Most notably, the year before he had made a virulent speech denouncing Boniface VIII's ‘crimes'. In other words, he was paving the way for the King's future pope, no doubt with Plaisians's assistance.

The names of one or two cardinals who had already been approached, that was what the prior and the Grand-Master needed in order to be able to intervene.

Nogaret's animosity towards Boniface had not diminished with the latter's death. The insult the supreme head of the Church had publicly hurled at him, referring to him explicitly as the ‘son of a Cathar', still rankled. On learning of the Pope's death the Counsellor had simply murmured:

‘Let him meet his Judge.'

Nogaret had not finished with the man whom he considered at best an appalling disgrace and at worst an emissary of the devil, hellbent on destroying the Church.

For the first time he studied the silent young man whose unassuming manner pleased him.

‘Be seated … Francesco, is it?'

‘It is, my Lord.'

‘It was a great honour and a privilege to serve the Pope. And yet you threw it away – and for the sake of a girl, moreover.'

‘A young lady – that is, almost.'

‘How gallant! Very well, a young lady, then. And what do you recall most about the time you spent in that prestigious service?'

He had hooked the big fish. The prior had been right. Despite
his intelligence, Nogaret was a zealot. He was zealous about the State, his king and the law. Zeal drives men but it also blinds them.

‘Many things, my Lord,' Leone sighed.

‘And yet this abundance hardly gives you reason to rejoice.' ‘It is only that His Extreme Holiness was … Well. The love of our Lord should impose itself without …'

A smile played across Nogaret's thin lips. He had taken the bait. How much did this usurer's nephew really know? Even if it were only sordid malicious gossip, he would feel gratified and confirmed in his loathing of Boniface. All the more so as chamberlains poked their noses everywhere, trading secrets of the chamber pot and the garderobe where some left evidence of the affairs of state: the evil-smelling colic of a great man could herald an impending succession. Turning once again to Giotto, he asked:

‘And so your nephew will take up the torch of your profession?'

‘Oh no, my Lord, regrettably he has no interest in business, and I doubt he has any head for it. Indeed, I am on the lookout among my prestigious connections for someone who would be willing to take him on. He is extremely intelligent, fluent in five languages, not counting Latin, and the unfortunate matter of the lady has chastened him enormously – why, anyone would think him a friar. He is highly trustworthy and knows that in our profession silence is golden.'

‘Interesting … As a kindly gesture towards you, my friend Giotto, I might be prepared to try him out.'

‘What an honour. What a great honour. How thoughtful, how generous … I would never have expected …'

‘It is because I value our agreeable and rewarding association, Giotto.'

Leone feigned boundless gratitude, going down on one knee, his head bowed, his hand on his heart.

‘Very well … I shall expect you tomorrow at prime
⁺
and we shall pray together. I know no better way of meeting than through prayer.'

At last Nogaret could broach the subject that most concerned him. A new loan, of thirty thousand pounds no less! Plaisians had calculated as precisely as he could. This was the amount they needed to fund the countless meetings with the French cardinals, and to pay the various intermediaries – not to mention the ‘gifts' the majority of prelates would expect in return for renouncing their own greed for supreme power in favour of a single candidate: that of Philip. As for the King, he had no fixed preference. It mattered little to him who was elected as long as the man did not meddle in France's affairs. The monarch was willing to support and finance anyone who could guarantee this.

Neither Giotto nor Leone was taken in by the Counsellor's justification for the loan: to prepare a fresh crusade in order to reconquer the Holy Land. Philip had far too much on his hands with Flanders and the Languedoc to be able to deploy his troops elsewhere. However, it was only polite to applaud any new project of this sort and Giotto did not breach the rule.

‘And what terms will you grant us, my Lord? For, while the sum is not vast, it is by no means insignificant.'

‘The interest rate set by Saint Louis.' Giotto had expected as much.

‘And repayment?'

‘Two years.'

‘Really? Only, it is a long time and I am not sure my lenders will …'

‘Eighteen months, that is my final offer.'

‘Very good, my Lord, very good.'

Moments later they were walking out of the Great Louvre Tower. Giotto rubbed his hands together.

‘So are you satisfied, Knight? You have your position.'

‘Don't expect any gratitude from me, moneylender. As for my mood, it is no concern of yours. Incidentally, I shall be staying on at your house.'

Capella pursed his lips. He had imagined that he was finally rid of this presence, which he rarely encountered but which he could feel even in the cold air that crept over his skin. He pretended to be unworried and asked:

‘And what did you think of this loan? The pretext of the crusade is very clever. It can be adapted to suit any circumstance. Thirty thousand pounds is a substantial sum but hardly enough to send an army of crusaders halfway across the world. Our friend Nogaret has other things in mind.'

‘What could it possibly matter to you? You have been paid, have you not?'

‘On the contrary, it matters a great deal to me. To read the minds of the powerful is to anticipate their needs and ward off their blows. We poor defenceless moneylenders are always expecting to receive the boot by way of thanks. Such is life.'

‘I am choked with tears.'

The snub did not fluster the spiteful rat, who persisted:

‘So what did you think?'

‘I found it extremely interesting for reasons you perhaps have not yet fully grasped.'

‘And what might they be?' demanded Capella.

‘You have just betrayed Monsieur de Nogaret. You have set a trap for him, and if he comes to learn of it … you would do well to die fast.'

It was so glaringly obvious that it had not even occurred to Giotto. His usual cunning and shrewdness had failed to alert him to the fact that by escaping one danger he was exposing himself to another, even greater one.

Ten minutes after they had left, the usher showed a slim figure wrapped in a heavy cloak into Guillaume de Nogaret's office.

‘Well?'

‘We are nearing our objective, my Lord. Everything is in readiness in keeping with your wishes.'

‘Good. Carry on with your work. You will be rewarded for your pains, as agreed. The strictest secrecy is essential.'

‘Discretion is my profession and my passion.'

A sudden misgiving made Nogaret ask:

‘What do you think of our affairs?'

‘What I think depends on how much you pay me, my Lord. Consequently your affairs are of a most noble nature.'