The Lady Agnes Mystery, Volume 1 (20 page)

The story was partly true, though the actual events had taken place not four but five years before.

Gachelin Humeau had decided to supplement the remuneration he received in his position as chamberlain by purloining, sometimes to order, diverse objects of value – above all, rare manuscripts of whose existence nobody but the Pope and his cardinals knew. A discreet inventory of the library’s contents revealed that fifteen books were missing, five of which, it turned out, were unique copies. The works whose loss was immeasurable included a parchment written in Archimedes’* hand, which Humeau claimed contained astonishing advances in mathematics, a terrifying work on necromancy, the mere mention of which caused Humeau to cross himself, and a treatise on astronomy with the rather undistinguished title
Vallombroso’s Theory
. The thief maintained that the contents of this last book, if they became known, would shake the entire universe to its foundations. Gachelin Humeau escaped arrest – fearing, and rightly so, that the Inquisition would force him to confess where he had hidden his priceless and redoubtable booty. He had then traded them in the utmost secrecy for a not inconsiderable sum that allowed him to envisage a future free from care. One of his customers had been none other than the Knight Francesco de Leone himself, who had ordered two works, for which he paid a small fortune. And it was thus he discovered where to resume his quest. The manuscripts, with their alarming and wonderful revelations, were now in a safe place. Before vanishing forever, Humeau had wished to spread his venom, further tarnishing the Pope’s reputation.

Nogaret took in the words of his secretary before declaring:

‘I am grateful for your honesty, Francesco. It is entirely appropriate and, rest assured, I appreciate it.’

Nogaret, because he believed his secretary had taken him into his confidence, felt relieved to be able to do the same. The position of King’s Counsellor was a lonely, hazardous one. It warmed his heart to have found in this young man seated before him an unexpected friend.

Francesco de Leone immersed himself once more in the tedious inventories. Nogaret would be attending the King’s Council that afternoon. This would provide him with a few hours in which to discover some clue as to the identity of the French cardinals whom the Counsellor was trying to persuade or buy.

For the past few days Leone had been acutely aware that time was running short. Evil, dark forces were at work, toiling relentlessly. He had never doubted their tenacity or savagery but now their imminence was growing apparent. The Darkness was approaching to engulf the emerging Light. The Darkness would resort to any weapon or artifice, however base, in order to perpetuate the shadows it fed upon.

He needed to reach the Templar commandery at Arville as soon as possible. He was not so foolish as to believe that he would discover the key to the Light within its walls, but he knew that concealed within those foundations and flagstones was the instrument necessary to forge it.

E
nsconced in the little office the Inquisition had provided him with, Nicolas Florin was radiant. Recalling his anxiety at leaving Carcassonne, he felt annoyed at his ‘girlish fright', as he called it. He realised now that even the young Dominican Bartolomeo, whom he thought he might be a little sorry to leave behind, bored him to death with all his timidity. How predictable the little friar was! Nicolas had wanted to see whether he could seduce him. It had proved so easy that he had instantly wearied of his victory. Seduction was a weapon and, as with any weapon, it was advisable to test its reliability and effectiveness on a variety of targets. In spite of his habit, Bartolomeo was easy to penetrate, he put up little resistance. A none too intelligent, awkward virgin summed him up to perfection. Undeserving prey for Nicolas. It is true that, in Carcassonne, Nicolas had not been spoiled for choice. He had been surrounded by sententious old fogies, monks embalmed in their dignity and their ridiculous doctrinaire squabbling. What did he care whether Francesco Bernadone – who after a life of poverty and devotion to Christ would take the name of Francis of Assisi – had emptied his father's warehouses in order to pay for the restoration of San Damiano? His father had ended by disinheriting him – a fact Nicolas considered wholly appropriate. As for the endless controversy over whether Saint Martin of Tours had offered all or only half his coat to a beggar whom he identified as the Saviour – he was sick to death of hearing about it. Of course this pedantic quibbling had but one aim: to separate the advocates of the poverty of Christ and his disciples, and consequently of the Church, from their virulent
opponents who were legion. Nicolas could not have cared less. If he had been born to riches, he would have laboured to protect his wealth and would never have been tempted by religion. He was poor but his Inquisitor's robes and position would help him to make this poverty provisional.

An image flashed through his mind. His mother enamoured of her only son. She had been so clever at delivering the offspring of Madame d'Espagne's ladies-in-waiting, and yet so foolish. What had become of her after he left? What did it matter? And his father, that timid scholar and lover of pretty historiated vignettes
35
and initial letters
36
ornamented with tracery,
37
his fingers stained with brightly coloured inks and powdered gold. He would mix cuttlefish and oak gall with egg white and powdered clove,
38
failing to remember that the Comte for whom he was ruining his eyesight preferred war and women's bellies to manuscripts. Lackeys! That was all they both were. Nicolas's perfect features, as well as his talent for duplicity, had earned him the favours of many ladies and a few lords. His intelligence would soon place him high above them all. No one could stop him and he would no longer need to grovel to anyone. Even the great lords of the realm trembled before the Inquisition. Only one master, the Pope, and he was far away.

The power of terror. He already enjoyed it and would exploit it to the full.

The tidy recompense torture brought – the death he could mete out as he saw fit. It was so easy to accuse someone of heresy or possession. So easy to force someone to confess to crimes he, Nicolas, had invented. There was no need even for an executioner, he dispensed with them and completed the job himself. A few moments in the interrogation chamber with him. Nothing more. Nicolas had confirmed it again and again. If the
accused was wealthy, an agreement could be reached. If not, he died, and his terror, his pain were compensation for Nicolas. In both cases he won. The thought made him sigh with pleasure.

What a perfect model, that Robert le Bougre. A tidal wave of screams, blood, strewn viscera, crushed feet, put-out eyes, torn flesh. Fifty deaths in a few months – victims of his brief stays at Châlons-sur-Marne, Péronne, Douai and Lille. The great pyre of Saint-Aimé: a hundred and eighty-three ‘pure', or so they claimed, Cathars burnt to cinders in a few hours.

Poor tiresome Bartolomeo. He would never experience greatness – even less the joy it procures.

He must now devote himself to the matter of Agnès de Souarcy, recently brought before him together with a first handsome payment. He would receive the second after her disgrace. Why not her death? But the Baron who had sought his services had insisted the young widow must not die, either on the rack or at the stake. And as far as torture was concerned he was to be as restrained as possible; the more ‘benevolent' nature of the abuse inflicted on women compared to men made this possible.
39
This was all Nicolas needed in order to understand that he was dealing with an incestuous lover seeking retribution – one, moreover, who had been spurned.

A woman, a lady, how pleasurable. How stirring they were when they squirmed with terror! Especially this one, whom he had heard tell was ravishingly beautiful.

What a disappointment! No matter. After all, he had been handsomely rewarded. Some other brainless victim would serve to vent his frustration. There was no lack of people falsely accused.

The evidence the Baron had provided as justification for an inquisitorial examination was a little unclear and so Nicolas
had decided to furnish his own. Heresy was the most suitable charge. He knew all the necessary ruses for these trials. None of the accused, even those who were innocent as newborn lambs, escaped his clutches.

He stretched his arms out contentedly and fell back in his chair, closing his eyes, and then, sensing another presence, instinctively opened them again.

The figure, wrapped in a brown cloak of coarse wool with a cowl drawn over its eyes, was standing motionless in front of him. He had heard no one enter his study. Nicolas's good humour was eclipsed by a sudden rage. Who dared to enter unannounced? Who had the gall to disregard his importance and his position in this way?

He rose, and was about to scold the intruder when a gloved hand emerged from a sleeve and handed him a small scroll of paper.

He was overcome by a series of conflicting emotions as he read the contents: astonishment, fear, avidity and finally intense joy.

The figure waited in silence.

‘What am I to think of this?' murmured Nicolas, his voice trembling with delight.

A deep voice, disguised by the thick cowl concealing the face, said tersely:

‘She must die. Three hundred pounds in exchange for a life, it is more than enough.'

Nicolas was tempted by the idea of a little blackmail in order to raise the fee:

‘Only …'

‘Three hundred pounds or your life, decide quickly.'

The coldness in the voice of the person standing before him convinced him the threat was real.

‘Madame de Souarcy will die.'

‘You are a sensible man. You will stay at Clairets Abbey during the period of grace. Thus you will be closer to your new … toy. No order is rich or powerful enough to oppose the actions of a Grand Inquisitor and the good nuns will do as they are told. Thus you will find yourself only a few leagues away from your prey, the sweet Agnès.'

T
he news of Apolline de Larnay's death during childbirth did not surprise Artus d'Authon, although he was more affected by it than he had imagined he would be. Death was already visible in the grey woman's eyes when he last saw her. And in her belly. The newborn baby, another girl, had outlived her mother by only a few hours. No one expected their loss to upset the feudal Baron unduly.

The death of this creature, whom he had once despised, stirred in him a strange sadness, the sadness of senseless waste.

He surprised himself contemplating Apolline's life. She was one of those women who live only through their desire to be loved by the one they love. Eudes was neither her beloved nor had he ever loved her. And so she had remained locked inside herself, observing the passing of the years, emerging only on rare occasions – as when he had visited her two weeks before.

What on earth was the matter with him? Why did everything seem so painful to him of late? After the devastation caused by the death of his son, he had managed to make a life for himself that was relatively dull yet almost devoid of pain. True, he had never been one of those cheerful light-hearted fellows who are well liked in society. And yet since Gauzelin's death nothing had come near to hurting him. So what was happening to him now? Why did Madame Apolline's unjust end affect him so much? Countless women died in childbirth. He had discovered in himself recently an edginess and sensitivity he was unaware he possessed.

That woman … A smile appeared on his lips for the first time that bleak day, which had been heralded by one equally gloomy. He urged himself to think clearly – it would save time. He admitted that he had not stopped thinking about her since he left Souarcy. He was visited by images of her at night or in the middle of a meeting with his tenant farmers or during a hunt – causing him to miss his mark. When he calculated the difference between their ages, he was shocked to discover that he was nearly twenty years her senior, and yet her deceased husband had been more than thirty years older than her. And besides, a man's age was of little consequence since his role was to provide for, honour and protect in exchange for love, obedience and a fecundity that would last his lifetime. Yes, but she was a widow, and the status of a widowed noblewoman with a child was without question one of the most favourable any lady could enjoy. If she possessed no fortune of her own, at least she would enjoy a dower, since it was unthinkable that a woman who had fulfilled her duties as both wife and mother could be left to fend for herself. Without a father or husband such a woman became mistress of her own destiny. This fortuitous status explained why many a noblewomen or burgher had no wish to remarry. Did Agnès de Souarcy subscribe to this way of thinking? He had no way of knowing. And anyway, who was to say she found him attractive or even simply agreeable?

After he had finished posing these troubling and unanswerable questions a black mood replaced the nervousness that was preventing him from finding any peace.

He brought his fist down on the table, almost upsetting the ink pot in the shape of a ship's hull.

A strumpet was what he needed. Attractive and glad to accept the money he offered her. A girl who would provoke no
interest in him. A moment of paid pleasure, meaningless and unmemorable. He had already grown tired of the idea before taking it any further. He did not want a girl.

The announcement of Monge de Brineux interrupted his troubled thoughts.

‘We have made some progress regarding the fifth and last victim.'

‘Have you determined his identity?'

‘Not as yet. However, he must have died a terrible death.'

‘How so?'

‘He almost certainly died from internal bleeding.'

‘What proof have you?'

‘The inside of his mouth was full of very fine cuts.
40
In my opinion the victim was given food containing crushed glass. By the time he realised, it was too late. The poor devil bled to death internally.'

‘It is a method they use to kill wild animals in some countries. A truly terrible way to die. What of the other victims? Have you made any progress?'

‘It is very slow. I sought the advice of a medical theologian at the Sorbonne.'

‘And?'

‘An awful lot of science and very little assistance.'

‘I see. And what was his opinion?'

‘Only that the victims died violently.'

‘An inspired conclusion! He has solved the mystery for us!' said Artus sardonically. ‘You would have done as well to seek the advice of my doctor, Joseph.'

‘The problem with those people is that they never leave their amphitheatres, and they keep as far away as possible from their patients, or the corpses they are entrusted with, for fear of being
contaminated. They are content to learn by rote and trot out what others discovered over a thousand years ago. They can quote Latin at you until your head is spinning, but if it is treatment you want for a boil or a corn on your foot …'

‘We shall reach the bottom of this, Brineux, I assure you.'

‘Yes, but when? How? At least four of the victims were friars. One was an emissary of our Holy Father Benoît XI who has just died, poisoned. This affair, which might have remained a local act of villainy, is taking on the proportions of a political incident. We must make progress, and quickly.'

For several days now Artus had feared this. The last thing the delicate situation between the French monarchy and the papacy needed was a papal emissary discovered burnt to death without any trace of fire.