The Lady Agnes Mystery, Volume 1 (31 page)

T
he first few days of the month had been warm and exceptionally wet. The slightest shower of rain would send evil-smelling torrents of mud hurtling through the streets, and yet Nicolas Florin did not yearn for Carcassonne's sunnier climes. He had, as he liked to think of it, ‘sown the seeds' of some very lucrative affairs, whose crop he would harvest once Agnès de Souarcy's trial was over. Indeed, he was at any moment expecting a visit from one of his future guarantors of wealth.

Nicolas Florin had given instructions for Agnès de Souarcy to be left alone for a week in her cell in the dungeon underneath the Inquisition headquarters. She was not permitted to wash herself, and her chamber pot was to be cleaned out only every three days. Besides water, her diet would consist of three bowlfuls of milk soup made with root vegetables,
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and a quarter portion of famine bread, which Agnan, his secretary, had ordered especially from the baker. The man, surprised by such an odd request in a year when harvests were good, had assumed it was part of a penance.

Florin had been a little disappointed for he was sure that she would refuse such lowly nourishment. And yet she had dutifully finished every last crumb. He knew why: Agnès de Souarcy was preparing to hold out for as long as she could. Good … It would only make his game more enjoyable. A week. It was a long time to spend alone in the dank gloom with only one's own thoughts for company, thoughts that turn in circles and always end up imagining the worst. Nicolas's plan was a simple one, and had until then proved effective. Keep the accused in wretched
isolation, terrify them for a few days, interrogate them and then allow a few visitors to bring them an agonising taste of what they were missing: freedom, their loved ones' faces, the realisation that life outside, however hard, was sweet by comparison. In fact, this strategy was aimed at breaking down the most stubborn resistance in order to obtain a confession and he did not expect a confession from the beautiful Agnès, who was guilty of nothing more than refusing to yield to her half-brother's lust. However, these bullying tactics would give the affair the appearance of an authentic trial, and he had spent hours relishing the thought of his victim's face already twisted with fear.

He gave a sigh of contentment as he cast his eye over the narrow room that served as his office. His small desk, made of a second-rate wood that had begun to split, was almost buried under a pile of casebooks. These were indispensable to the inquisitor, who was obliged to record in them every last action, meeting, witness accusation, punishment meted out or torture employed. The aim was not so much to ensure the thoroughness of the procedure as to make sure that no case would ever be lost. If the accused were eventually found innocent, who was to say that he might not be tried again for some other crime?

His secretary, Agnan, entered silently, his head bowed, and waited for Florin's permission to speak.

‘Well, Agnan. What is it?'

‘Seigneur Inquisitor, your visitor has arrived.'

‘Bring her in.'

The other man slipped soundlessly out of the room.

Marguerite Galée belonged to a wealthy family of burghers from Nogent; shipbuilders who no doubt had taken their name
from the vessels they constructed.
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Nicolas had carefully researched the state of their finances.

The lady cut a fine figure in her fur-trimmed coat, too warm for the time of year. She could not have been more than twenty-two. Twenty-four at the most. The perfect oval of her face was framed by the sheerest of veils. A hint of vulgarity in her eyes belied the unassuming elegance of her posture, her upper body leaning backwards slightly so as to avoid stepping on the narrow train attached to the front of her dress, as worn by ladies of the nobility. The tiny silk slippers covered in mud that peeped out at every step were additional proof of her wealth, for by evening the sludge in the streets would have irrevocably ruined them.

Nicolas stood up to greet her and, holding out his hand, guided her to the chair on the other side of his desk. She sighed and gave a pretty shrug of her shoulders as she spoke hesitantly:

‘A distant relative, Baron de Larnay, heartily recommended you to me, Seigneur Inquisitor. I find myself in a very delicate situation from which I know not how to extricate myself. I have come to you … for advice, Seigneur Inquisitor. Your wisdom, which is equalled only by your indulgence, has been remarked upon among a … discreet circle.'

How exhilarating life was becoming: this ravishing, exceedingly rich young woman lowering her gaze before him and addressing him by his title ‘Seigneur Inquisitor' at the end of every sentence; and as for the Baron de Larnay, well, he was turning out to be more interesting than he had first thought.

‘You flatter me, Madame.'

‘No, Seigneur Inquisitor. On the contrary, I … This is such a delicate matter …'

He paused. Marguerite Galée had been testing the water ever
since she arrived and caution told him that he should continue feigning an inquisitor's disinterested observation. However, he was afraid the lady might take fright and renounce her plan, in which case he risked seeing the generous compensation he was hoping for go up in smoke. The predatory look in her eye when she first arrived encouraged him to throw caution to the wind:

‘Madame, pray look upon this office as a confessional. I have listened to many stories in here, few of which have surprised me. It is not always easy to bring about justice. Is it not my role to remedy such matters … and my reward to receive the gratitude of such pure souls as yours?'

She raised her head and a knowing smile played across her lips, as alluring as an exotic fruit.

‘What a relief, Seigneur Inquisitor … The first of my worries is that, unhappily, I have as yet been unable to conceive. The second is that my husband is very ill … the doctors fear that the pain in his chest, which has left him breathless for weeks, will grow worse …'

She paused and bit her lip. Florin encouraged her to go on with an affectionate gesture.

‘Despite his advanced age, my husband's father enjoys such perfect health that I am beginning to find it suspicious.'

So, this was the reason for the lady's visit. Her father-in-law must be extremely wealthy. If her husband were to die before his own father without leaving an heir, this avaricious beauty wouldn't see a penny of the old man's money. Florin felt a nagging doubt. There were plenty of poisons available with which to rid oneself of an old man who clung stubbornly to life, which a woman such as she would have no difficulty in procuring. On the other hand, he had witnessed it many times: it was much easier to arrange for
someone else to carry out a murder than to perpetrate it oneself. Even so, he was a little disappointed in her. Admittedly, though, an inquisitorial procedure was above suspicion, whereas a case of poisoning might incriminate the beneficiary.

‘Suspicious, you say?'

‘Indeed, as is my inexplicable sterility. You see, my father-in-law … Well, I would be putting it mildly if I said that he is not overly fond of me.'

‘Do you suspect him of improper practices?'

‘Most emphatically.'

‘Of practising magic? I am referring to black magic, the use of incantations and the invocation of evil spirits. Is this what you mean?'

‘Just so. I even suspect him of having a hand in my poor dear husband's illness.'

Whom you will dispatch the moment the old man has given up the ghost, thought Nicolas, affecting an air of deep disquiet.

‘This is a most serious accusation, Madame. Indeed, a witch resembles a heretic in his worship of demonic idols. Have you any proof?'

‘Well, he …' She appeared to hesitate, but went on: ‘He eats meat on fasting days …'

A sensible man, for fasting days are a most tiresome invention, Nicolas thought to himself. He was going to have to help the beautiful Marguerite, for she had clearly not thought out this stage of her offensive.

‘A most valuable piece of evidence. There exist others even more damning. For example, do you suspect that your father-in-law undermined your husband's health and prevented you from conceiving with wax figurines?' he suggested.

She nodded.

‘Good. In your opinion, does he summon demons in a cellar or a burnt-out chapel?'

‘There is one not far from where he lives.'

‘It is common in these places to find evidence of black masses, such as inverted crucifixes and candles blackened with soot. You will need to verify this in the presence of a notary. Do you suspect him of taking part in sexual acts of a depraved and unnatural nature?'

‘I am convinced of it … with me he tried to …'

And a man of good taste into the bargain, Florin reflected approvingly, if indeed there was any truth in the accusation.

‘Why, the scoundrel! However, I had more repulsive, bestial acts in mind.'

She raised her eyebrows questioningly.

‘For example, involving animals such as goats …'

During the next half-hour, Nicolas Florin listed every piece of evidence Marguerite needed to plant so that the men-at-arms and the notary, whose testimony was crucial to the inquisitors, could find it without any difficulty.

She was beaming as she stood up to leave. She approached his desk, her hands outstretched in a gesture of gratitude. He grasped them, raised one to his lips and ran his tongue over her palm. She closed her eyes in ecstasy and murmured:

‘This affair promises to be most intoxicating, Seigneur.'

‘I am ready to intercede at a moment's notice, Madame.'

She threw him a beguiling look as she left the room, and he unfolded the note she had slipped into his hand. Printed on it was a sum: five hundred pounds. There was no need for any contract. Who would be foolish enough to default on a debt to an inquisitor – pecuniary or otherwise?

The would-be Marguerite Galée walked along sedately until she turned the corner of the Inquisition headquarters, when she felt her legs give way beneath her. She leaned against the enclosure wall for a moment and took a deep breath. She heard a low voice like an instantly soothing balm, a voice she associated with a past miracle.

‘Come, there's a tavern nearby. You look pale. Come and rest awhile, my friend.'

The tall cowled figure put his arm around the waist of the false Marguerite Galée and helped her along the few remaining streets. The young woman could not stop shaking and was unable to speak until they had sat down at a corner table of the establishment, which was almost deserted at that time of day. She nearly spilled the wine she was sipping from a goblet down her beautiful hired coat. The alcohol helped rid her of her feeling of nausea. Francesco de Leone removed his heavy cloak and asked:

‘How do you feel, Hermine?'

‘I was so afraid.'

‘You're a brave woman. Drink some more and catch your breath.'

Hermine obeyed. How strange that this magnificent man, the only man ever to have refused her when all she had to offer by way of gratitude was her body, could calm her with a look or one of his inscrutable smiles. How strange that he alone had helped her feel at peace with her own soul – and even with those of others.

She was able to summon up that afternoon of pure terror as vividly, painfully and perfectly as if it had taken place only yesterday.

He had not judged her, the beautiful archangel; he had barely
spoken. He had stood between this woman whom he did not know and an angry volley of stones. The blood had trickled down his forehead and onto his cheek. He had not protested or backed away or drawn his sword from the scabbard swinging against his calf. He had simply looked at them, and his piercing blue gaze and the cross above his heart had made even the most vehement of her tormentors bow their heads.

Stoned. They wanted to stone her to death. Hermine had belonged to a Cypriot lord – bought and paid for like a bolt of silk, a pack of hunting dogs or a censer. When he died, his frantic widow claimed that Hermine had bewitched him, had stolen him from her bed and killed him with her caresses and love potions. The ludicrous nature of these accusations had deterred no one: they were reason enough for an execution. A horde of men, women and even a few children had chased her for hours along the cliffs, shouting and jeering merrily as they passed each other bottles of wine. Finally they had cornered her in a cove. Exhausted, Hermine had curled up like a terrified animal, shielding her head with her arms. She had recognised the excitement in their eyes. The thrill of sanctioned murder. A shower of stones rained down on her. Then all of a sudden he had appeared and thrust her behind his back and they had scuttled away like crabs, those evildoers turned executioners, intoxicated by a taste of power.

It was strange. She would have travelled to the ends of the earth for her knight and yet he had only wanted her to go to the end of the street, as far as the Inquisition headquarters.

Hermine held out her hand and Francesco clasped it between his. This simple contact made the young woman close her eyes. He released his grip, and she murmured:

‘Forgive me.'

‘It is I who must ask your forgiveness for placing you in a dangerous situation.'

‘You warned me. Pleasing you is so sweet to me.' She smiled apologetically before continuing: ‘I enjoy being eternally indebted to you. I owe you my life and you can never forget me – for the lives of those we save belong to us. We cannot change this however much we may wish to.'

It was his turn to smile now. Like Éleusie, and his mother and sister before her, Hermine unknowingly reawakened his compassion, allowed him to lower his guard, to fall asleep without clasping the hilt of his sword. Hermine and the other women who lived in his memory had the power to wash away for a moment the Giotto Capellas of this world and all the baseness he encountered.