The Lady Agnes Mystery, Volume 1 (35 page)

‘And it was very wise of you, Blanche,’ Éleusie praised her. ‘Let us entrust the key to our apothecary. We will publicly announce that you have been disencumbered of it at your own request without revealing who its new keeper is and in this way …’

‘No one will try to kill me in order to steal it,’ the old woman finished the sentence for her.

‘What a shrewd idea of yours, sister, to keep it in your shoe. I shall do the same,’ Annelette lied.

She had already decided upon a hiding place. She regretted lying to poor Blanche but continued to believe that the old sister’s advanced age had weakened her faculties and was concerned lest she give herself over to idle and dangerous chatter. Only she and the Abbess would know where she planned to keep the key.

They left Blanche de Blinot, safe in the knowledge that she would sleep more easily.

Back in her study, the Abbess said:

‘Lend me your key for a few moments. I am going to ask the cellarer nun for hers, too. I want to make sure that my seal is safe. I shall see you afterwards, Annelette.’

The other woman understood that she was being dismissed and did not take offence. No doubt the safe contained private documents. Moreover, she had to prepare her little trap, as she had chosen to refer to it.

Éleusie de Beaufort found Berthe de Marchiennes, the cellarer nun, by the hay barn. She was overseeing the counting of the hay bales being stacked in a pile by four serfs. Éleusie was instantly puzzled by Berthe’s expression. She could detect no hint of sorrow on her face, or indeed any emotion whatsoever. Éleusie stifled a growing feeling of hostility. Berthe had not been close to Adélaïde, nor was she to any of the sisters. The cellarer nun was muttering under her breath:

‘For goodness’ sake! What idlers! At this rate we’ll still be here at nightfall.’

‘The bales are heavy.’

‘You are too charitable, Reverend Mother. The men are slothful, that’s all. All they think of is eating their fill at our expense. My father was right to …’

Berthe stopped in mid-sentence. Her father had beaten the living daylights out of his serfs, blaming them for all his own mistakes. He had starved them and left them to die like animals and the Abbess knew it. Just as she knew that the late Monsieur de Marchiennes had taken one look at his newborn baby girl before declaring her ugly as sin, without prospects, and never giving her another thought. Berthe clung to a dream she knew to be impossible. She still aspired to the life she felt she had been deprived of, a life in which she would have been beautiful, the life her name predisposed her to, had it not been for her father’s indifference and stubborn foolhardiness, which had been the ruin of the family.

‘My dear Berthe, would you please lend me the key to the safe which I put in your charge.’

Éleusie thought she saw a flicker of hesitation on the cellarer’s face, and was surprised by the woman’s sudden awkwardness as she stammered:

‘Why, naturally … I … I always keep it with me. Why … Of course it is not for me to question your reasons for opening the safe, but …’

‘Quite so,’ interrupted Éleusie sharply. ‘The key, if you please.’ The Abbess was becoming uneasy, on edge. Was Berthe going to tell her she had lost it? Had her silent reservations about the cellarer nun been justified? She held out her hand.

The other woman’s crumpled, embittered little face creased up even more. She unbuttoned her robe, pulled out a long leather thong and lifted it over her veil. On the end of it hung the key.

‘Thank you, daughter. I shall return it to you the moment I have finished with it.’

A quarter of an hour later Éleusie was shaking so much as she jiggled the three keys into position in the lock that it took her two attempts. She scarcely glanced at the seal, but let out a loud sigh of relief as her hand alighted on the
pergamênê
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containing the plans of the abbey. It was the only record of the existence and location of the library, and the Abbess was no longer in any doubt that this was what the murderess was looking for.

E
udes de Larnay reread for the fifth time the brief summons signed by the inquisitor, Nicolas Florin.

What was the meaning of this new development? When Florin had advised him to produce a written statement from Mathilde de Souarcy, he had understood that the young girl would not be required to appear before her mother's judges. It was not so much that the baron wished to protect his niece, but that he was afraid that the tissue of lies he had filled her with might begin to unravel during a cross-examination.

And what of it! Florin had enough evidence to keep Agnès rotting in prison for a few months and to dispossess her of her dower! Since he was now Mathilde's legal guardian, her inheritance belonged to him for the time being. Time enough for him to achieve his aim. That flighty little madam wouldn't have a penny left to her name once he had finished with it. And when her uncle had tired of her youthful charms, he would send her to a nunnery whether she liked it or not. After all, girls there were fed and clothed and at least no one could hear them lamenting their fate.

He felt that the inquisitor was treating him very lightly. He even appeared to make barely veiled threats. Eudes reread the note aloud:

‘… You will bring your niece to the Inquisition headquarters at Alençon without further ado and leave her alone in our company so that we may determine the reliability of her suspicions and grievances regarding Madame her mother …'

There was no entreaty, no polite phrasing.

Eudes was seething. It meant taking Mathilde all the way to Alençon. No doubt they would have to arrange a wagon since the foolish girl was terrified of horses and slumped over the neck of her mount like a straw doll hanging on to the reins. Agnès was like a centaur in comparison, undaunted even by the perilous ladies' side-saddles. The fastest, most spirited destriers responded to the pressure of her calf as though they had at last found their true master. It was Eudes, no one else, who had taught her to sit in a saddle from the age of five. She had shrieked with laughter, ducking to avoid low branches, fearlessly fording river beds, clearing hedges and was often the victor when they raced each other.

Suddenly, he felt aghast at the stupidity of his plan. What had he been thinking! Besides money and the power it brings, all that had ever mattered to him was Agnès. How had it come to this? What did he care for that foolish, heartless girl strutting about in cast-offs while her aunt, who had died giving birth, was barely cold in the ground? Agnès would rather have put on the clothes of a beggar than accept such unseemly gifts. She would have held her head up high, a queen among queens clothed in rags, and all would have bowed before her. She would have slept on bare boards like a dog rather than occupy the deserted conjugal bed. Dear God, how had it come to this?

Was it him or their blood ties that repulsed her so? It must be their blood ties. If he believed otherwise, it would drive him mad. Yet what did she really know of her true origins? Agnès's mother might have lied in order to force the late Baron Robert to recognise her child. In any case, his father Robert, his grandfather, and now Eudes himself, the last in the male line of the de Larnay family, had sired so many bastards that he sometimes wondered whether he might not be bedding his sisters, nieces, cousins,
aunts, even his own daughters. And what of it? In the end were they not all descended from Adam and Eve? Had not Adam and Eve borne two sons, one of whom had killed the other? They all shared the same blood.

A thought was slowly forming through his rage and jealousy, through the pain of his unrequited love and frustrated desire. Until then he had believed he was the sole originator of his plan, but had he not in fact been manipulated? True, he had for years dreamed of wreaking his revenge on Agnès, of making her pay for her arranged marriage to Hugues de Souarcy by robbing her of her dower. But never of handing her over to the Inquisition. He trawled his memory.

Incapable of admitting that he was an animal driven by his passions and brutalised by his lack of intelligence, Eudes discovered the one person he could blame: Mabile.

He raced up to the servants' quarters, where his mistress and accomplice had been holding court since her return to the chateau. She had cleverly insinuated to the other servants that not only did she serve her master in his kitchen but also in his bed, thus making them respect her more, since none could be sure of the true extent of her influence.

Eudes found her sprawled on her bed, dipping her finger in a pot of honey and licking it. She greeted his arrival with a suggestive smile and opened her legs beneath her dress. Under other circumstances such an invitation would have produced an immediate effect. Not today. He seized the girl by the scruff of her neck and slapped her with such force that she moaned:

‘What …?'

‘You lied to me! You've been lying to me from the start,' he exploded.

Bewildered, Mabile snapped back:

‘Well, that makes two of us.'

Another blow, this time from his fist, sent her hurtling to the floor.

The servant understood that her master's anger was real and that he was quite capable of giving her a thrashing. Dragging herself up onto all fours, she cried:

‘My lord … what is it?'

‘The truth. I want the truth this instant. If you lie to me again, I'll kill you.'

The girl's fear gave way to rage. That loathsome Agnès. She should have known. She sat back, her legs folded under her, and hissed:

‘Is my lord feeling pricked by remorse? Well, it's a little late for that.'

Eudes walked over to the crouching girl and kicked her in the chest, eliciting a cry of pain. She fell forward, and even as she gasped for breath her body shook with malicious glee as she spluttered:

‘I'll wager the lovely Agnès isn't quite so full of herself these days. And, if you don't mind me saying so, I wouldn't bother trying to save her. The punishment reserved for perjurers is scarcely better. And the same goes for that haughty little madam you treat as though she were the lady of the house. It's too late, I tell you! That lynx Agnès de Souarcy is going to die and it serves her right.'

‘Who told you that?'

‘I found your mysterious visitor's suggestion most appealing, a real ghoul he was … Though not unreasonable. He spoke of such punishments and abuse as I could never have dreamed of
inflicting upon the lovely Agnès, and then gave me the name of the Grand Inquisitor you were to see.'

Eudes realised that Mabile's hatred would only end when her rival was dead. He understood that he had been used, that he had fallen headlong into a trap he had wrongly believed was of his own making.

‘Why … Why do you hate her so much?'

‘Why?' she hissed venomously. ‘Why? Because without even having to ask she received everything I begged to be given. Because she grudgingly deigned to accept what I wanted so desperately I was prepared to kill for it. Because when you bed me, you want me to be her. Need I go on?' She let out a spiteful laugh before concluding: ‘I'm not without brains … It was I who stole her pretty little handkerchief and planted it a few yards from where the bailiff's men found that corpse. The fools … They didn't even realise that if they didn't find it the first time they looked, it was because somebody had hung it on a low branch after the murder. If the bastard manages to escape the clutches of the Inquisition, which I doubt, she will fall directly into the hands of secular judges.'

Eudes felt as though a huge abyss were opening up in front of him. He enquired in a trembling voice:

‘She never really lay with her chaplain, did she?'

‘What of it? Provided people believe she did, that's good enough for me. As for that pest Clément's mother being a heretic, it is more than likely, but I couldn't give a fig either.'

Eudes felt an icy chill descend on his thoughts and declared blankly:

‘You have half an hour in which to leave the chateau. You will take with you only enough food for a day's consumption. You
will be searched before you go. Should you dare to return here or communicate any of our shameful secrets, you will meet a slow and painful end.'

With these words he left the room. Mabile remained motionless for a few moments, unsure whether to cry tears of rage or sorrow. Rage prevailed for she had learned long ago that tears offered no protection.

She rose to her feet, vowing through clenched teeth:

‘You'll pay for this a hundredfold, my master!'

Fortunately, the money she had been squirrelling away for years was hidden in a safe place at Clairets. Together with what she knew about Eudes, from whom she intended to exact a high price in exchange for her silence, it would enable her to start a new life elsewhere on a good footing. Pleased at her own foresight, she prepared to leave, putting on several layers of clothing.

‘You'll pay for this, I swear upon my soul.'

Eudes lay slumped over the table in the main hall, his head resting in a red pool that was too watery to occasion any alarm on the part of Monsieur Manusser, Madame Apolline's former apothecary. Furthermore, the empty pitcher lying beside him suggested that his master's sleep was not due to tiredness. He tapped Eudes on the shoulder then quickly stepped back. Eudes groaned in his drunken stupor then sat up, his eyes half closed.

‘What is it?' he roared.

‘Mabile left an hour ago, my lord; she took the road north. You instructed me to inform you.'

‘Is it dark yet?'

‘Almost.'

‘Was the hussy searched before she left?'

‘Your orders were carried out to the letter. Barbe searched her thoroughly, including her private parts. Mabile could not have concealed anything of value or any document about her person. We provided her with an oil lamp, as you requested, and with enough food for a day.'

‘Good. Is my horse saddled?'

‘Just as you instructed, my lord.'

Eudes stood up, a little unsteady on his feet, and said:

‘I need to clear my head. Have a bucket of cold water sent to me at once. I must … visit my mine.'

Sceptical but eager not to provoke his master's rage, the apothecary bowed and left.

Eudes's fist came crashing down on the table.

‘Ugly whore! Your evil scheming is over! Prepare to commend your soul to God – if indeed he does not reject it in disgust, for it must be putrid.'

He had given her an hour's start to enable her to put a good distance between herself and Château de Larnay. The light from the oil lamp would help him find her.

Eudes rode through the forest. The sky was clear and the night air fresh and invigorating. A fine evening for an execution. Mabile had become too dangerous. Even so, he would follow her advice. It was impossible for him to retract his accusations, still less those he had put into his silly little niece's mouth. He soon spotted her. She was following the road, keeping close to the edge of the forest, ready to sneak into the undergrowth at the slightest sound. She swung round to face the thunder of hooves, and Eudes raised his arm to put her at ease. He slowed his mount, stopping a few paces from her.

‘I let my temper get the better of me,' he conceded gruffly.

Mabile raised her lamp so that she could see her master's face.

Reassured, she gave a grin of triumph.

‘Let us return,' Eudes ordered.

He dismounted and walked towards her. She wriggled coquettishly and pressed her body up against his. Two hands gripped her throat. She gasped and tried to struggle, scratching at his eyes, her legs thrashing about helplessly. He pressed as hard as he could, grunting with the effort. He felt something give in the girl's throat. Mabile kicked one last time then went limp. He released his grip and her lifeless body slumped to his feet like a bundle of rags.

He dragged her into the bushes. Looking back one last time without a trace of sorrow or remorse on his face, he left her lying a few yards from the road with her skirts hitched up. If anybody found her before the animals got to her, they would conclude that she had been raped and left for dead by some vagabond. Her peasant's dress would rule out any thorough investigation.

Eudes felt relieved as he climbed back into his saddle. After all, she was just a servant, a strumpet who had turned out to be a little cleverer than the others. What's more, she had been presumptuous and, above all, foolish enough to have lied to him about the chaplain. He should have got rid of her sooner. He had been far too indulgent. They were all the same, these harlots. Give them an inch and they take a mile!