The Lady Agnes Mystery, Volume 1 (25 page)

‘You know perfectly well how uneasy I feel about those hieroglyphs.’

‘They are not hieroglyphs, they are secret runes.’

‘They are forbidden by the Church.’

‘Like many things.’

‘Are you blaspheming, my nephew?’

‘Blasphemy exists only against God, and I would rather die than allow it. What do you think would befall us if our quest became known?’

‘I do not know … The purity of it would convince them and make them rejoice.’

‘Do you really think so?’

‘Why this sarcasm, nephew?’

He looked at her for a moment, bowing his head before replying:

‘Do you really believe that those who wield such power and wealth would gladly let it slip through their fingers?’

‘I still have hopes that the Light will impose itself of its own accord, Francesco.’

‘How I envy you.’

‘Benoît died on account of this Light, Francesco. And many more before him,’ she reminded him in a sad voice.

‘You are right. Forgive me, aunt.’

‘You know I am incapable of being cross with you, my dear.’ He paused for a moment before enquiring:

‘Are you absolutely certain that Madame de Souarcy was born on 25 December?’

She stifled a chuckle before replying:

‘Do you think me an old fool, my sweet boy? I have told you repeatedly that she was born on Christmas Day. It is a significant enough date, despite its pagan origins,
48
for it to be remarked upon and remembered … I came to make sure you have everything you need. I must leave you now – there are many things that require my attention. I shall see you presently, nephew.’

‘Farewell, aunt.’

The Abbess gone, Leone trawled through the many notes he and Eustache had scribbled on the notebook’s pages. All of a sudden his blood ran cold and for a moment he felt so dizzy he nearly lost his balance.

Somebody had torn out the last but one page of the notebook! A moment of sheer panic made his mind go blank. Somebody had consulted the notebook. But who? He was certain his aunt was telling the truth when she said she had not looked at it during his absence. Who then? One of the other nuns? Nobody else knew of the library’s existence.

He had been mistaken. Ing, the rune signifying error, was not pointing to the erroneous astral charts, but to his unforgivable stupidity.

The last two deceptively blank pages contained the calculations and diagrams – the most secret notes of all.

Did the thief know this?

Since Nicolas Florin’s arrival, Éleusie de Beaufort had tried her best to perform her usual tasks in the belief that her diligence would be a comfort to her girls. Were it not for this wish to carry on as though nothing in their lives had changed, she would have
remained in her chambers despising her cowardice.

She was on her way to the steam room, walking unhurriedly, when her attention was caught by two figures standing side by side. Without really knowing why, the Abbess flattened herself against the wall behind one of the pillars holding up the vaulted ceiling, and watched the scene taking place twenty yards away. Her heart was pounding and she pressed her hand against her mouth, convinced that her quickened breathing could be heard at the other end of the abbey.

Florin. Florin was leaning over and whispering something to one of the sisters. The Inquisitor’s back obscured the listener’s identity. A few seconds passed, which seemed to her like an eternity. At last the two figures separated and the Inquisitor promptly disappeared down the right-hand corridor leading to the relics’ chamber.

The person to whom he had been speaking remained motionless for a moment, and then appeared to make up her mind, turning towards the gardens.

It was Emma de Pathus, the schoolmistress.

E
squive d'Estouville put down the phoenix she had started embroidering many months before. The piece of linen cloth was fraying in places and covered in poor stitching that was coming loose. Needlework had always bored her, but it gave her the appearance of composure.

The young woman let out a sigh and her charming face became tense with frustration. It was such a long wait, and she was so eager to join her beautiful archangel, her Hospitaller. Her frustration was mixed with a curious happiness. To suffer a little each day for the one who would suffer so much. He did not know it yet and it was better that way.

When would she see him again, when would she permit herself to see him?

Esquive's lady's maid knocked at the door of the little room in the townhouse where she spent most of her time, when she was not handling weapons.

The maid was carrying a sumptuous cream-coloured dress over her arm.

‘It's ready, Madame. I thought you'd want to see it straight away.'

‘You were right, Hermione. Let us look at this marvel I have been waiting for three weeks to see.'

Hermione approached her, avoiding as always the young Comtesse's gaze, which made her so uneasy – those huge amber, almost yellow, eyes. The eyes of a little wild cat.

T
he bell for prime had sounded, but he would not be there. Nicolas Florin was in too much of a good mood to risk ruining it by inflicting a service upon himself. Thirty-one days, thirty-one days exactly. Thank God she had neither confessed to nor atoned for her sins. She was all his and nothing, no one, could save her now.

The armed escort had arrived the evening before and was just waiting for a sign from him. Agnès de Souarcy would be escorted in a few hours by carriage to the headquarters of the Inquisition at Alençon. Once inside its walls no one would hear her supplications or her screams, however loud.

He stretched with contentment as he lay on his bed trying to envisage Comte Artus’s confusion. Soon, everybody would dread the new Inquisitor’s power.

A momentary doubt clouded his optimism. The Abbess seemed to him changed of late, as though some unexpected certainty had all of a sudden allayed her fears. What of it! She might be an Abbess but she was only another female.

He gave a satisfied laugh. His female was so pretty, the one he had been coveting for a whole month now. He imagined her receiving him later, wringing her hands, wiping away her tears, her face pale and distraught with fear. Even though she had no idea to what extent her terror was justified.

A wave of voluptuousness washed over him, leaving him breathless with joy.

He would play for a long time, for a very long time. He closed his eyes as an explosion of pleasure wrenched his belly.

A
gnès read one last time Clément’s brief message, which Comte Artus had ordered his men-at-arms to bring, before casting it reluctantly into the hearth. She so wished she could have kept it with her.

The young woman had not been mistaken and Clément had taken great care with his words in case the missive fell into the wrong hands.

The Comte had also scribbled a few cryptic lines, intended only to be understood by the addressee.

Adeline burst into the great hall without troubling to knock. She was weeping and stammering:

‘He’s here … He’s here, the black monk, the evil one.’

And she fled, as though her life, too, were in danger.

‘Madame?’

‘I was waiting for you, Monsieur.’

Agnès turned to face him, her back to the hearth. Florin’s good mood faltered. She was not weeping. Nor was she wringing her hands in dread.

‘I am ready. You may take me.’

‘Have you nothing …’

She interrupted him sharply:

‘I have nothing to confess. I have not sinned and I intend to prove it. Let us go, Monsieur, it is a long way to Alençon.’

N
icolas Florin was adamant that Agnès de Souarcy should be installed in the stout wooden wagon that gave the impression of a tomb on wheels. Minute arrow slits on each side allowed the occupants a limited view of the outside world. These were covered by leather curtains so that in the event of an attack no arrow could pierce the narrow openings. Four Perche horses were needed to draw the wagon.

The five men-at-arms requested by Nicolas Florin sat beside the driver or were jostled about on a cart trundling along behind. Agnès's belongings were contained in a small chest while, in an astonishing display of extravagance for an inquisitor, those of Nicolas filled an enormous trunk. An escort of five men-at-arms for one woman seemed an exaggerated precaution, but the Dominican was fond of such excesses. He saw them as visible proof of his newly acquired power.

His eyes were glued to Agnès, watching for the slightest sigh, the merest tensing of her jaw. Indeed, it was the reason he had given the order for her to travel with him in the wagon instead of in the cart. Did she regard the gesture as a mark of respect for her social status? Florin could not tell, and the thought had irritated him from the outset of their journey. Things were not going according to plan and had not been since the day of their first encounter when he had gone to notify her of the beginning of her period of grace. Did she really think she could get the better of him? Or that he would show her mercy? If this were the case, she would soon be disappointed. He lifted the leather flap and peered out at the sky. Night was falling. Since sext
⁺
they
had been advancing at the horses' slow but steady pace. She had not once raised her eyes from her hands clasped upon her lap, or uttered a single word, or even asked for water or a halt in order to relieve herself – something Nicolas would have been only too glad to agree to in the hope that she might be humiliated into wetting her shoes or the hem of her skirts in the presence of one of his guards.

A vague feeling of unease crept into the Grand Inquisitor's irritation. Had his victim received guarantees of protection? If so, from whom? From Comte Artus d'Authon or the Abbess of Clairets* or someone more highly placed? But who could be more powerful than the man behind the imposing figure who had paid him a visit at the Inquisition* headquarters in Alençon? No. He was behaving like a scared child. The bastard was adopting the haughty air of the sort of lady she aspired to be, nothing more.

She raised her blue-grey eyes from her hands, which were joined in prayer, and stared at Nicolas. He felt an unpleasant warmth suffusing his face and diverted his gaze, cursing himself as he did so. There was something peculiar about this woman – something he had not taken the time or had been unwilling to see. He tried now to analyse what he felt, but without much success. At times he had experienced the thrill of terrifying her, just as he did the others. But then all of a sudden another woman appeared, like a secret door leading to a mysterious underground passageway. And that other woman was not afraid of him. For some reason, Florin was quite sure that Agnès had no control over these transformations. Had he been an unthinking fanatic like some of his brothers, he would no doubt have seen it as proof of demonic possession. But Florin did not believe in the devil. And as for God, well, he had little time for Him. The pleasures life had to offer to those who knew how to take them were of
greater concern to the Grand Inquisitor. Among the many he had condemned to death for sorcery or possession, Florin had never come across any convincing proof of the existence of miracle workers or witches.

His annoyance got the better of his cunning and he blurted out:

‘As I am sure you are aware, Madame, the inquisitorial procedure* permits no other counsel than the accused himself.'

‘Indeed.'

‘Indeed?'

‘I am aware of that particularity,' she said in a voice whose confident tone humiliated the inquisitor.

He stifled the anger welling up in him and the accompanying urge to slap her. He knew he should have held his tongue, but the desire to watch her face turn pale was too overpowering, and he continued, forcing himself to speak softly:

‘It is not customary to reveal the identity of the witnesses for the prosecution, any more than the content of their accusations … However, because you are a lady, I may grant you this privilege …'

‘I have no doubt that you will do all that is necessary and correct, Monsieur. If you do not mind, I should like to take a short nap. The long days ahead require me to be rested.'

She leaned her head against the back of the wooden bench and closed her eyes.

Florin's eyes filled with tears of rage, and he pursed his lips for fear he might utter an oath that would reveal his agitation to Agnès. He was vaguely consoled by the words of one of the most celebrated canonists: ‘The aim of trying and sentencing the accused to death is not to save his soul but to uphold public morals and strike fear into the hearts of the people … When an
innocent refuses to confess, I resort to torture in order to send him to the stake.'
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Agnès had no wish to sleep. She was reflecting. Had she won a first victory in the long battle for which she was preparing herself? She sensed this man's puzzling hostility towards her and his exasperation.

Is it your still-innocent soul that protects me even now, Clément? Thanks to him Agnès knew that Florin was using the first of many tricks in the inquisitor's arsenal.

Many months before, on a July evening when it was nearly dark, Clément had returned in an excited state from one of his frequent forays. It was already late and Agnès had retired to her chambers. The young girl had scratched at her door and asked to see her for a moment.

No. She must never think of Clément other than as a boy or she risked making a blunder that would endanger both their lives. She must continue to refer to him only in the masculine.

The child had tapped at her door and asked to see her for a moment. He had stumbled upon a copy of
Consultationes ad inquisitores haereticae pravitatis
50
by Gui Faucoi, who had been counsellor to Saint Louis before becoming Pope Clément IV. The treatise was accompanied by a slim volume, or, rather, a manual of blood-curdling procedures. He had stammered:

‘M-Madame, Madame … if only you knew … they use trickery and deceit in order to obtain confessions, even false ones.'

An inscription at the head of the slender manual read:

‘Everything should be done to ensure that the accused cannot proclaim his innocence so the sentence cannot be deemed unjust …'
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‘What an abomination,' she had murmured in disbelief. ‘But
this is about trial by ordeal … How is it possible? Where did you come across these works?'

The child had given a muddled explanation. He had mentioned a library and then skilfully evaded Agnès's questions.

‘I see in it a sign from God, Madame. Knowing and anticipating your enemies' ploys means avoiding the traps they lay for you.'

He had described them to her: the technique of coercion and humiliation aimed at breaking down even the toughest resistance, the scheming, the manipulation of witnesses. The wretched victims were questioned on points of Christian doctrine. Their ignorance should have come as no surprise to anyone and yet was used as proof of their heresy. Clément had also listed the few possibilities of appeal at the disposition of the accused. As almost no one was made aware of them they were rarely invoked. It was possible, for example, to appeal to the Pope – though such appeals had every chance of being mislaid, often intentionally, unless an influential messenger delivered them directly to Rome. An objection to an inquisitor could be made on the grounds that he harboured a particular animosity towards the accused. However, the process was liable to miscarry since it required judgement, and very few judges were willing to risk getting on the wrong side of an inquisitor or a bishop associated with the Inquisition.

Clément had managed to dash any last hopes his lady might have entertained by adding that the majority of inquisitors, although they received a wage, rewarded themselves with the confiscated property of the condemned men and women. It was therefore against their interests for the latter to be found innocent, and wealthy victims, although more difficult targets, were desirable prey.

The knowledge Clément had acquired from some unknown
source had allowed Agnès to forge what she hoped would be her most reliable weapons when confronting Florin.

The inquisitors' initial ploy, then, was to swap the names of the witnesses and their accusations. Thus the first accusation would be attributed to the fifth witness, the second to the fourth, the third to the first, and so on … In this way the accused would appear clumsy in his defence against each informer. Cleverer still, they added the names of people who had never come forward as witnesses to the list of actual informers. But the subtlest, most convincing and preferred method was to ask the accused in a roundabout way whether he was aware of having any deadly enemies who might perjure themselves in order to bring about his downfall. If the accused failed to mention the most fervent of his accusers, their testimony was placed above suspicion since by his own admission they could not be fabrications. In each case the protection of witnesses was considered essential for the very good reason that ‘without such a precaution, nobody would ever dare testify'.

Curiously, these revelations, which had so shaken her that night, now came to her aid. Had she believed that she was about to be dragged before impartial judges whose sole concerns were truth and faith, then her resolve would have been weakened. She would have searched inside herself for the failing that could justify such harsh punishment. Clément had helped her to understand the wicked nature of this farcical trial. Only a noble enemy deserves a fair fight.

Her thoughts had been wandering in this way for a while when Florin's voice almost made her jump. He thought he had woken her and this gave him further cause for alarm. How was she able to sleep at a time like this?

‘Owing to the limited space at the Alençon headquarters, you will be subjected to
murus strictus
while you are in custody, unless that is … the midwife attests that you are with child.'

‘Perhaps you have forgotten that I have been a widow for many years. Is not
murus strictus
a severe punishment rather than a … temporary accommodation?'

He seemed surprised that she would have knowledge of such things; the secrets of the Inquisition were jealously guarded in order to further demoralise the accused. The ‘narrow wall' was simply a gloomy, damp dungeon the size of a cupboard where it was possible to chain prisoners to the walls.

‘Madame … we are not monsters!' he exclaimed with feigned indignation. ‘You are allowed brief visits from members of your close family – at least before the beginning of … the real interrogation.'

The torture, she thought. She tried to respond in an impassive voice:

‘You are too kind, my lord.'

Agnès closed her eyes again in order to end the conversation, whose only aim was to frighten her. Her heart was pounding in her chest and it took a supreme effort of will for her to control her breathing. The only way she could control or stifle her mounting terror was by clinging to the thought that she had managed to place Mathilde and Clément out of harm's way.

Half an hour later, Florin shouted: ‘Stop!' causing Agnès to start.

‘We shall make a brief halt, Madame. Would you like to use the opportunity to stretch your legs?'

Despite her determination not to give in, she needed a moment to herself. After a second's hesitation she replied:

‘Gladly.'

He leapt nimbly to the ground and refrained from offering to help her down. One of the guards hurried over and handed him a package, probably containing food and refreshment. The inquisitor studied her for a moment and asked:

‘Do you require a little privacy, Madame?'

Stifling a sigh of relief, she accepted:

‘Indeed, my Lord Inquisitor.'

‘I think we all do. Hey, you over there, escort Madame.'

A big brute with a squashed face walked up to them. Agnès was on the verge of changing her mind, of saying that she preferred to wait until they reached Alençon. She was dissuaded by the smirk on Florin's face and the pain that had been searing her belly for hours. She spotted a thicket of bushes and walked over to it. The brute followed.

Once she was out of view of the others, she waited for the man to turn away, but his eyes were glued to her. His moist lips spread in a lecherous smile as she lifted her skirts. Agnès squatted, her anger eclipsing any embarrassment she might have felt, and stared straight at her escort. The man's smile dissolved and he lowered his gaze. This small victory comforted the young woman. It was a sign that she could prevail.

She did not remain outside enjoying a little more fresh air, but climbed straight back into the clumsy wagon. She could smell through the crack in the door the faintly acrid odour of bracken and the soothing forest air, heavy with humidity.

Florin glanced down at the hem of her dress as he sat down opposite her. Agnès fought back the urge to point out that she had not wet her gown. She had hitched up her skirts and if his man-at-arms had glimpsed her calf or her knee, then much good
might it do him. She was beyond such foolish concerns, though at other times and in other places they would have seemed of the utmost importance to her.

When they finally reached Alençon, Agnès's lips were parched with thirst.

The wagon rattled over the cobbled courtyard of the Inquisition headquarters. Florin announced in a hushed voice:

‘We have arrived, Madame. You must be exhausted after the long journey. I will show you without delay to what will be your … lodgings over the coming weeks.'