The Lady Agnes Mystery, Volume 1 (26 page)

Agnès was in no doubt as to his motives. He wanted to see the distress on her face, and she prepared for the worst – or so she thought.

Despite the enveloping gloom, the inquisitor strode confidently towards a small flight of steps leading up to a heavy door reinforced with struts. She followed, aware of two guards some yards behind her.

An icy cold pervaded the hallway. Florin ordered a few candles to be lit, and in the flickering light it occurred to Agnès that he resembled a beautiful vision of evil.

‘Come along,' he chivvied, the excitement becoming evident in his voice.

They crossed the low-ceilinged room, which was devoid of any furniture except for a vast table of dark wood flanked by benches. Florin walked over to a door on the right of the enormous room.

Suddenly, a young man appeared as if from nowhere and stood at Agnès's side.

Florin declared in an alarmingly gentle voice:

‘Why, Agnan, you look only half awake. Could it be that while
I was crossing hill and dale for the greater glory of the Church you were sleeping?'

Out of all the clerics, Nicolas had chosen Agnan to be his secretary because the young man's unredeemed ugliness suited him to perfection. Ugliness. What a splendid example of injustice. Agnan was the sweetest, gentlest creature, honest and pious, and yet those beady close-set eyes, that bony protruding nose and receding chin were deformities that inspired immediate mistrust in the onlooker. On the other hand, who would have believed that Nicolas's long slender frame, his gentle slanting eyes and full lips concealed a soul whose darkness would have struck fear into the heart of any lay executioner? And so Agnan suited Nicolas down to the ground, and moreover he was easily intimidated.

‘Indeed not, my Lord Inquisitor. I have been busy assembling the various pieces of evidence for the forthcoming trial in order to further you in your task,' explained the other man timidly.

‘Good.' Nicolas gestured towards Agnès without looking at her, and added: ‘Madame de Souarcy is to be our guest.'

Agnan glanced nervously at the young woman then quickly lowered his head. And yet she could have sworn she saw a flicker of compassion in the secretary's eyes.

‘Very good, run along now and keep up the good work.'

The other man bowed, stammering his agreement, and left with a rustle of his dowdy habit made of homespun wool.

One of the men-at-arms rushed to open the low door. A stone spiral staircase plunged into the murky blackness. The guard went ahead to light the way. As they descended into the cellars, the damp, acrid air caught in Agnès's throat and soon combined with the lingering odour of mud, excrement, pus and rotting flesh.

The staircase opened onto a floor of beaten earth that had
turned into sludge with the first rise in the water level of the river Sarthe. Agnès breathed through her mouth in an attempt to quell her feeling of nausea. Florin declared cheerfully:

‘After a few days one grows accustomed to it and the stench is no longer noticeable.'

The underground chamber seemed vast; bigger, Agnès thought, than the surface area of the Inquisition headquarters. The supporting pillars were joined up by bars that demarcated the cells. They walked alongside the cages, which were too cramped for a man to stand up in. Occasionally, the flickering light from Florin's candle briefly illuminated an inert figure huddled in a corner, asleep perhaps, or dead.

‘We are not accustomed to receiving ladies of your standing,' Florin said ironically. ‘Although I am a monk, I am still a man of the world and as such have reserved one of the three individual cells for you.'

Agnès was perfectly aware that this gesture was not motivated by any consideration for her wellbeing. His aim was to deprive her of all contact – even with her fellow prisoners, who admittedly were in no position to offer her any solace. For the first time she found herself wondering whether he might not be afraid of her. Nonsense. What could he possibly fear from her?

The floor sloped gently downwards, and they passed beneath the vaulted ceiling and alongside the remaining cells enclosing the poor tortured, terrified souls. Agnès's shoes sank into the thick mud. They were certainly close to the river. A damp, unhealthy chill caused her to shiver, and the idea that she would soon be alone, shut in with this foul odour, undermined her resolve not to allow her fear to show. Strangely, even Florin's evil presence felt preferable to this void full of horrors that awaited her. All of a sudden something slippery gripped her ankle and she screamed.

A guard rushed over and, pulling her roughly to one side, stamped his heavy wooden clog onto a hand … A bloodstained hand drooping through the bars of one of the cages. There was a wail, then whimpering ending in a sob.

‘Madame … there is no hope of salvation here. Die, Madame, die quickly.'

‘What foolishness!' exclaimed Florin, and then in a voice that had regained all of its cheerfulness he warned the shadowy figure of a man hunched against the bars: ‘Pray, but pray in silence; you have offended our ears enough with your griping!'

She remained motionless a few steps away from the cage, peering into the darkness that the candle flames struggled vainly to illuminate. Could those two blue openings surrounded by what looked like raw flesh be eyes? And was that gaping wound a mouth?

‘Dear God …' she groaned.

‘He has forsaken us,' responded the feeble voice.

‘Blasphemy!' Florin shrieked, pulling her by her coat sleeve. ‘And he protests his innocence.'

A few yards further on they came to a door that could only be entered by bending double. It had no peephole. One of the guards drew back the bolt and stepped aside. The inquisitor walked in, followed by Agnès.

‘Your chamber, Madame,' he announced cheerily, and then in a voice suddenly filled with loving sadness: ‘Believe me, my child, there is nothing quite like peace and quiet for putting one's thoughts in order. I hope that you will have time in here to reflect, to see the error of your ways. My overriding desire is to help you return to the Lord's fold. I would give my life in return for saving your lost soul.'

The door slammed, the bolt grated. She was standing alone in total darkness. She began to walk tentatively, sliding one foot after the other. As soon as her leg touched the primitive bed she had been able to make out in the gloom, she collapsed on it in a heap.

She was gripped by a sudden panic, and it was all she could do to stop herself from screaming and hurling herself against the door, pummelling it with all her might, begging them to come back for her.

And what if they left her there to rot, dying of hunger and thirst? What if they waited until she went mad and then declared her possessed?

That man, that wretched soul who had grasped her ankle and implored her to die quickly. He knew. He knew that years of detention awaiting trial could turn into a lifetime on the pretext of further inquiries. He knew about privation, humiliation, weeks of torture. He had learned to live with the fear and certainty that few ever escaped the Inquisition's clutches.

Silence! He wants you to give up and let go of life. I order you to stand firm! Baronne de Larnay, Madame Clémence would not have given in. Stand firm!

If you plead guilty, you will languish here until death comes to claim you, and Mathilde and Clément will be doomed. They will endeavour to declare you a relapsed heretic – the most heinous of crimes in their eyes.

Remember, you will be shown no mercy, he will not be moved to pity. Stand firm!

Even as she admonished herself, she was struck by the terrible certainty that Florin was enjoying himself. However absurd the idea might seem, Florin was not driven by material gain, still
less by faith. He took pleasure in torturing. He enjoyed causing suffering, lacerating and disembowelling. He rejoiced in making his victims scream. She was his latest toy.

An acid saliva rose in her mouth and she bent double as she cried out.

Clémence … Clémence, my angel, bless me with a miracle.

Show that you deserve the miracle by standing firm!

J
oseph, Artus d'Authon's old Jewish physician, masked his contentment. He felt flattered that young Clément possessed such a rare ability to learn and could express his awe so openly to him.

And yet it had taken all of the child's powers of persuasion and the Comte's insistence to convince him to take the boy on as an apprentice. The mere idea of having to explain, repeat, din the beauty of science into the young boy's head exhausted him.

Joseph had soon been surprised by how much Clément already knew. He had even lost his temper with the boy, ordering him to be silent when he mentioned certain medical facts known only to a small number of scholars – facts which, if openly talked about, ran the risk of provoking religious reprisals.

‘But why lie when one possesses true knowledge that could prevent suffering and death?'

‘Because knowledge is power, my child, and those who control knowledge have no wish to share power.'

‘And will they always control it?'

‘No, because knowledge is like water: you may try to cup it in your hands but it will always slip through your fingers.'

As the weeks went by, Joseph had allowed himself to become enchanted by the boy's keen intelligence, and perhaps also by the desire, by the hope, of being able to pass on the vast knowledge he was afraid would die with him.

Why had he left the prestigious university at Bologna? He was honest enough to admit that he had been motivated by foolish
arrogance. The works of the great Greek, Jewish and Arab doctors of medicine had been translated in Salerno and Bologna. However, despite the wealth of knowledge generated by these previously unheard-of works, the West had persisted in using practices that owed more to superstition than to science. Joseph had gradually convinced himself that he would be the harbinger of this medical revolution. He was mistaken. He had settled in Paris in 1289 in the belief that his wish to propagate his art for the common good would protect him from the anti-Semitism that was rife in France. Again he was mistaken. A year later, the situation grew worse after the case of Jonathas the Jew,
52
who was accused of spitting on the Host, even though so-called witnesses were unable to describe the exact circumstances in which the supposed sacrilege had taken place. Jews were once again portrayed as enemies of the faith in the same way as the Cathars. Besides the everyday humiliations and official discriminatory measures, they lived in fear of being stoned by a hostile mob that would readily tear them apart with impunity. Abandoning his possessions, like so many others, he had chosen the route to exile. He considered going to Provence, which was known for its tolerance, and where many of his people already enjoyed a peace they mistakenly believed would be lasting. But Joseph's age had caught up with him and his journey had ended in Perche. He had set down his meagre baggage in a small town not far from Authon-du-Perche, and had tried to remain inconspicuous. He had occasionally treated people, though without employing his full knowledge for fear of arousing suspicion, and yet was so much more successful than the local apothecaries and doctors that news of his reputation soon reached the chateau. Artus had summoned him, and Joseph, not without trepidation, had obeyed.

The tall, withdrawn, broken man had stood before him and
studied him in silence for a few moments before declaring:

‘My only son died a few months ago. I wish to know whether you could have saved him, esteemed doctor.'

‘I cannot say, my lord. For, although I am aware of your terrible loss, I do not know the symptoms of his illness.' The tears had welled up in the old physician's eyes and he had shaken his head and murmured: ‘Ah, the little children. It is not right when they die before us.'

‘And yet, like his mother, he had a frail constitution and often became ill and feverish. His skin was deathly pale and he bled profusely even from the smallest scratch. He complained of tiredness, headaches and mysterious pains in his bones.'

‘Did he feel the cold?'

‘Yes. To such an extent that his room had to be heated in summer.'

Artus had paused before continuing:

‘Why did you, a Jew, choose to practise in this part of the world?'

Joseph had simply shaken his head. Artus had gone on:

‘To be a Jew at this time in the kingdom of France is a frightening thing.'

‘It has long been the case and in many kingdoms,' the physician had corrected, smiling weakly.

‘Together with the Arabs you are reputedly the best doctors in the world. Is such a reputation justified?'

‘Our patients must be the judges of that.'

For the first time in many months, Artus, whose grief had been unrelenting since Gauzelin's death, allowed himself a witty rejoinder:

‘If they are able to judge, it is because you have cured them, which is more than can be said for the majority of our physicians.'

He had taken a deep breath before asking in a faltering voice the question that had been plaguing him all along: ‘He, my physician, was fond of bloodletting. It worried me and yet he swore by its effectiveness.'

‘Oh, how fond they are of bloodletting! In your son's case it was pointless, I fear, though, judging from your description of his symptoms, the little boy would have died anyway.'

‘What was he suffering from in your opinion?'

‘A disease of the blood mostly found in very young children or those over sixty. It is quite possible that the same sickness in a less severe form also took your wife. The condition is incurable.'

Strangely, Joseph's diagnosis had eased the Comte's terrible suffering. Gauzelin's death had not been due to his physicians' – and consequently his own – shortcomings, but to a twist of fate that they had been powerless to prevent.

Joseph had subsequently found sanctuary at the chateau. The Comte granted him full use of the library and the freedom to come and go as he pleased and this, together with the Comte's influence, made him feel secure. Gratitude had gradually given way to respect, for Artus d'Authon was a man of his word and, one day, in the course of conversation he had said to Joseph:

‘Should your people's plight worsen – as I fear it may – then I strongly advise you, for appearance's sake, to convert. My chaplain will attend to it. Should the idea prove abhorrent to you, Charles II d'Anjou, King Philip's* cousin, whilst complying in Anjou with the monarch's severe treatment of the Jews, is far more tolerant in his earldom of Provence and his kingdom of Naples. Charles is a cautious but shrewd man and the Jews bring him wealth. Naples seems far enough away to offer more safety. I would help you travel there.'

Joseph could tell by the solemn look in the eyes gazing intently at him that, come what may, he could trust this man's word.

The Comte enjoyed such robust health as to make him the despair of any doctor wishing to practise his art. And so Joseph treated the minor ailments of the Comte's household or the more serious illnesses afflicting the serfs, which were mostly caused by deprivation or lack of hygiene. The old physician had long given up trying to fathom the contradictions in man and had reached the conclusion that it was a futile search. His patients showed their gratitude by bringing him small gifts and bowing as they passed him on the street. They took him for an Italian scholar or powerful sage, called upon by their master to look after their health. Children would run along behind him, taking hold of his robe as though it were a lucky charm. Women would stop him, shyly informing him in hushed tones of a recovery or a pregnancy, and slip him a basket of eggs, a bottle of cider or a milk roll sweetened with honey. Men would bare an arm or a leg to show him that a skin ulcer he had treated had disappeared. Joseph chose not to scrutinise their smiles, their awkward speech, their faces, to avoid identifying those who would have denounced him to the secular authorities had they known he was a Jew.

He walked over to the large lectern where Clément, his mouth gaping in astonishment, was in the process of devouring a Latin translation.

‘What is it you are reading that so surprises you?'

‘The treatise on fraudulent pharmaceutical practices, master.'

‘Oh yes, the one by Al-Chayzarî that dates back two centuries.'

‘It says here that in order to increase their earnings pharmacists were in the habit of cutting Egyptian opium with
Chelidonium
or wild lettuce sap or even gum arabic to make it go further. The
deception can be detected by mixing the powdered form with water.
Chelidonium
gives off a smell of saffron, lettuce a slightly sickly odour and gum arabic makes the liquid taste bitter.'

‘Fraudulent practice has existed since time immemorial, and I suspect it always will – there is much money to be made from being dishonest. A good physician, or pharmacist, should know how to detect it in order to be sure of the effectiveness of the medicine he prescribes to his patients.'

Clément looked up and, unable to contain himself any longer, asked him the question he had been burning to put to him since their first meeting:

‘Master … Your knowledge is so vast and so varied … Have you ever heard of a scholar by the name of Vallombroso?'

Joseph knitted his bushy grey eyebrows and replied:

‘Vallombroso is not a man but a monastery in Italy. I am told they have carried out some astonishing mathematical and astronomical studies there, and that the friars are excellent at medicine.'

‘Oh …'

Disappointment was written all over the child's face. Now he would never be able to understand the scribbled notes in the big red journal.

‘Why do you ask?'

‘I …' Clément stammered.

‘Is it as bad as all that?' Joseph coaxed him gently.

‘I read somewhere that … but please do not imagine for a moment that I give any credence to such nonsense, I read that Vallombroso was the name quoted in a theory according to which the Earth is not fixed in the heavens …'

The colour drained from the physician's face and he ordered sharply:

‘Be quiet! No one must ever hear you speak of such things.'

Joseph glanced around nervously. The large, bright room, freezing cold in winter, which they were using as a study, was empty.

He moved closer to the child and bent down to whisper in his ear:

‘The time is not yet ripe. Mankind is not ready to hear and accept the truth … The Earth is not fixed. It spins on its own axis – thus explaining the existence of day and night – and moreover it rotates around the Sun, always following the same course, which is what produces the seasons.'

Clément was stunned by the perfect logic of it.

‘Do you understand, Clément, that this is a secret? If anyone were to find out that we share this knowledge, it could cost us our lives.'

The child nodded his agreement then spoke in a hushed voice: ‘But does this mean that the astrologers are all mistaken?'

‘All of them are. What is more, it seems logical to assume that other planets exist which we do not yet know about. And this is why you should not put your faith in astrological medicine's current teachings.' Joseph paused briefly before continuing: ‘It is now my turn to ask you to let me into a secret … young woman.'

Clément's cry of astonishment rang out in the soundless room.

‘For you are indeed a girl, are you not?' Joseph continued in a whisper.

Clément, still speechless, was only able to nod.

‘And you will soon be eleven … Has anybody ever explained to you the … physiological peculiarity characterising the fair sex?'

‘I don't know. I know I'll never grow a beard and that there
exists a fundamental physical difference between boys and girls,' the child ventured.

‘I thought as much. Well now, let us start with that – cosmogony can wait!'

Clément's shock quickly gave way to panic, and in an almost inaudible voice he tearfully implored:

‘No one must know about it, master. No one.'

‘I realise that. Do not fear. We are joined together by dangerous secrets now, as well as by our thirst for knowledge.'

They turned as one towards the door as it creaked open. Ronan ventured a few steps into the room before offering an apology:

‘I trust I have not interrupted you in mid-experiment, revered doctor.'

‘No, indeed. We had just finished a demonstration.'

‘My Lord Artus has asked to see young Clément.'

‘Well, run along, my boy. The Comte wishes to see you. You mustn't keep him waiting.'

‘Thank you, master.'

‘Come straight back whenever it pleases His Lordship. We have not finished for today.'

‘Very good, master.'

The Comte was working in his beloved
rotunda
. When Clément came in, he looked up from his ledgers and nodded gratefully to Ronan.

‘Zounds! What a thankless task is that of a paymaster. It puts me in a most foul mood,' he muttered. ‘And yet I should be overjoyed and grateful that we have avoided disaster. The harvests were good and the calving season more encouraging than last year.'

As he finished writing a sentence, Clément could not help
noticing the elegance of his cursive script.
53
It was then that he recalled the bold handwriting in the notebook – the rotunda lettering reserved for scientific, legal or theological treatises; in brief, for scholarly works in Latin. If, as he had always suspected, it was the knight Rioux's script, could this mean he had been a theologian in the Hospitaller order? And if he had been, how would that knowledge further Clément in his investigation? He did not know, but he felt instinctively that it was important.

The Comte replaced his quill in the beautiful silver inkwell shaped like a ship's hull that was sitting in front of him. His face, already pensive, became tense, and the child was filled with apprehension. Why this hesitation? What news was he holding back? The Comte spoke in a faltering voice which he tried unsuccessfully to control: