The Lady Agnes Mystery, Volume 1 (22 page)

T
orrential rain had threatened to ruin the harvest, which took place later in Perche than in Beauce. Everybody had pitched in, working night and day to beat the storms.

Artus had galvanised his troop of peasants and serfs, riding from one farm to another, scolding some, praising others. They had watched him roll up the sleeves of his fine linen tunic, pacify two enormous Perche horses harnessed to a cart and drive them to collect the harvested wheat. The women had marvelled at his physical strength and the men admired him for not shying away from such ignoble and punishing work. He had shared their meals of cider, coarse bread and bacon, and, like them, had collapsed onto the haystacks for an hour's rest and sworn like a soldier that ‘this accursed weather won't get the better of me, by God!' They had worked for two whole days and nights without stopping.

Artus d'Authon had returned worn out, soaked to the skin, covered in grime and stinking. Before collapsing fully dressed onto the bed he had felt comforted by the fact that since morning he had hardly thought about her at all.

He slept through the night and most of the next day. When he awoke, Ronan, who had served his father, had drawn him a hot bath and was waiting armed with brush, soap and bath sheets.

‘Those hay fleas have eaten you alive, my Lord,' observed the old man.

‘In which case they must all be dead,' Artus joked. ‘Careful, you evil tormentor, my eyes aren't dirty so don't put soap in them!'

‘Forgive me, my Lord, you're covered in grime and, well, it's very stubborn grime.'

‘It is the real sort, the sort that comes from the earth. I am hungry, Ronan, very hungry. Are you planning to torture me much longer with this brush?'

‘There's still your hair to do, my Lord. I was leaving the best until last. A young boy arrived last night. He seemed exhausted.'

‘Who?'

‘His name is Clément, and he claims he had the honour of meeting you at his mistress's house.'

Artus d'Authon rose suddenly to his feet, causing a wave of soapy grey water to spill over the sides of the huge tub and soak the floorboards. He cried, almost shouted:

‘What did you do with him? Is he still here?'

‘Your hair, my Lord, your hair! I shall tell you the rest if you sit down quietly in the tub and let me clean that … stuff on your head.'

Ronan had witnessed worse, first with the late Comte d'Authon and then with Artus, whom he had known since he was born.

‘Don't speak to me like a nanny,' grumbled the Comte.

‘Why not since that's what I am?'

‘I was afraid you would say that.'

Artus adored Ronan. He embodied Artus's living memories – the most wonderful and most dreadful. He was the only one who had braved his master's murderous rage following the death of little Gauzelin. Without saying a word he had doggedly carried on taking Artus's supper up to his chamber, despite his master's threats if he continued. The only time Artus had ever begged for God's forgiveness was on account of Ronan, on account of the slap he had given his faithful servant that had sent him crashing
to the floor. Ronan had picked himself up, the imprint of Artus's fingers reddening on his cheek. He had stared at the Comte, a terrible sadness in his eyes, and said:

‘Until the morning, then, my Lord. I hope the night is kind to you.'

The following day an even more haggard-looking Artus had apologised, his head bowed in obediance. Ronan, his eyes brimming with tears, had walked over and embraced Artus for the first time since he was a child:

‘My poor boy, my poor boy, it is a terrible injustice … I beg you during this dreadful ordeal not to forget your goodness and generosity of spirit, for if you do then death will have triumphed on all fronts.'

It was no doubt thanks to that slap that Artus's rage had abated. He had continued along the path of life.

‘Quick, tell me, what did you do with him?' Artus repeated, wincing as Ronan scrubbed his head hard enough to take the skin off.

‘I put him in one of the outbuildings and gave him some food, a blanket and a straw mattress until I could find out what you wanted to do with him. One of the farm hands saw to his horse. The boy has a letter. He showed me the roll of parchment, but refused to give it to me. It is addressed to you and no one else. His story sounded true enough. I hope I did not act naively regarding the boy.'

‘No. You did well. Gently does it – it's my hair, not a horse's mane.'

‘It could easily be mistaken for one, my Lord.'

‘So what about this Clément? What story was this?'

‘His mistress ordered him to come here to you.' Ronan sighed
before continuing, ‘The boy's terrified, and I think I am right in saying that he did not wish to leave her side, only she commanded it. He is waiting for you.'

‘Have you done with that brush yet? There we are. I'm as shiny as a new gold coin!'

‘Talking of gold coins …'

Ronan paused. His voice had a strange catch in it as he continued:

‘He asked me how much the meal I gave him last night would cost. He explained that he had seven gold coins – his mistress's entire fortune, which she entrusted to him when he left. He said he did not wish to squander what she had worked so hard to save, and would prefer to eat only a little bread and soup. I had great difficulty trying to convince him that I was not an inn keeper and that he was your guest.'

Artus closed his eyes, pretending they were stinging from the soap. The heart he had believed lifeless skipped a beat. He was overwhelmed by a sweet pain raging in his breast. His life was so empty of love it felt as if he were discovering it anew: the boundless love Clément had for his lady, the love she felt for the brave boy, his own love for Agnès. Seven gold coins. The whole of her tiny fortune – barely the price of a handsome coat with a fur trim.

‘Yes, yes, I've finished,' Ronan informed him. ‘And yes, the boy is fed and rested and waiting for you, my Lord.'

Artus stepped out of his bath and, hopping about impatiently, allowed Ronan to dry him.

Artus walked up and down, hunched forward, his hands clasped behind his back. The large blue-green eyes followed his every
movement. Clément had explained the situation in a few words. The Inquisition, Mabile's supposed revelations, the Dominican's visit, the time of grace dwindling like the grains of sand in an hourglass. He had sobbed when he related Agnès's fear that he would be arrested and tortured, and how she had made him swear on his soul to go away and not come back, to flee, leaving her to face the Inquisition alone. And then he had had to stop, for his tears drowned out his words – and he was so afraid for her. The Comte d'Authon walked over to his desk again and read Agnès's letter for the tenth time.

The Comte was plunged into a maelstrom of conflicting emotions that prevented him from speaking to this oddly slender boy, who seemed so young, standing before him, his head held high, his gaze steady even as he trembled with fear.

But why had she not sought his protection herself? He could have intervened, made this Inquisitor withdraw his accusations. Admittedly they wielded great power, but it did not extend to angering the King of France, and for her Artus was prepared to lower himself to request the King to intervene. For her. Philip would have understood. He was a great king and a man of honour and of his word when the affairs of state were not in the balance. And, moreover, he was not overly fond of the Church or of the Inquisition, even if he used them as his needs dictated.

This woman bowled him over, exasperated him, humbled him, moved him in a way nobody else ever had. Her courage was equalled only by her reckless blindness.

Did she really believe she could fight a Grand Inquisitor alone? With what weapons?

No, she was not blind. She was as Monge had described her – a lynx. She was using guile, protecting her young, exposing her throat in order to distract her enemy momentarily.

Did she really believe she could turn on him, bury her teeth in his accursed flesh? She could not stand up to them. They had full powers and enjoyed complete immunity since each absolved the other of his sins whatever they might be.

What if she knew this? What if it was deliberate suicide? He was enough of a huntsman to know that female lynxes were capable of it, and when this happened he would stop the chase and let the animal go. Once, one had turned after fleeing a few paces and gazed at him with her yellow eyes before vanishing like a ghost into the thicket. Artus had been struck by the mysterious certainty that the animal had been acknowledging, perhaps even thanking him.

The predator Clément had described would never retract his claws and release his prey. Agnès stood no chance against him.

His fist struck the table and he cried out:

‘No!'

Clément did not flinch.

‘We must find a way out,' mumbled Artus. ‘But how? We have no pope. Any petition, even from the King himself, would be lost in the Vatican's maze of officialdom, each in turn giving the excuse of there being no pontiff as a justification for doing nothing.'

Clément waited, motionless, expecting he knew not what from this man – a miracle perhaps. He suggested:

‘Was not the King's brother, Monsieur Charles de Valois, awarded the county of Alençon last year?'

‘Yes, he was.'

‘The headquarters of the Inquisition to which Nicolas Florin is attached are at Alençon,' insisted the child.

‘If I thought that an intervention by the royal family might help us, I would choose Philip, not our good Charles, who is not known for his political finesse. My boy … Comte d'Alençon or no, Charles can do nothing. The Inquisition takes orders from no one but the Pope.'

‘And we have no pope,' repeated Clément.

His voice was quaking, and he bit his lip to stop himself from continuing, but Artus must have read his thoughts and bellowed:

‘No! Cast that idea from your mind! She is not lost! I am not done thinking about it yet. Leave me now. I need peace in order to reflect and your deafening silence prevents me.'

Clément left without a sound.

Reflect.

The realisation he had just come to while he was speaking to the young boy with the blue-green eyes stunned him by its simplicity, its intensity. He would do anything to save her. It was accompanied by his increasing lucidity, cynicism even, as regards almost the entire religious apparatus. Faith was quickly set aside when power and money came into play. Artus knew that some Inquisitors could be bought, and this one was no exception to the rule since Eudes had clearly paid him for his services. All he needed to do, then, was to offer a higher price.

He would leave for Alençon the next day.

A
rtus was stunned by the young man's perfect beauty. The image Agnès and Clément had painted of him was by no means exaggerated. The Inquisitor's unctuousness was so predictable that under any other circumstances he might have found it amusing.

‘Your visit is an honour for me, Monsieur, lowly monk that I am.'

‘A lowly monk! You judge yourself too harshly, Monsieur.'

Nicolas resented this noble who put him at a secular level, denuding him of his religious aura. All the more so, since his polite phrase had permitted the Comte not to return the honour. He did not doubt that the Comte's choice of words had been deliberate.

During the journey there, Artus had mulled over the best way to tackle the Inquisitor. Should he broach his subject gradually or go straight to the point? His deep uneasiness, and the fact that he wanted above all to avoid giving the other man the impression he was unsure of himself, made him choose the second strategy.

‘I understand you recently went to notify a lady – a friend of mine – of her time of grace, did you not?'

‘Madame de Souarcy?'

Artus nodded. He sensed the Inquisitor's uncertainty. Nicolas cursed that fool Larnay who had assured him that the Comte d'Authon would not intervene in favour of the lady. He recalled the words, and the warning, of the figure in the dark cloak and quickly calmed down. What could the Comte do in the face of such power, even if he did enjoy the friendship of the King? He replied in a soft voice:

‘I was unaware that Madame de Souarcy was a friend of yours, Monsieur.'

It occurred to Artus that had Agnès not opened his eyes to Nicolas Florin through Clément, he would almost certainly have considered him above suspicion. After all, if evil were not so deeply seductive, how did it win over so many adepts?

‘She is.' Artus paused then continued, ‘I do not doubt that you are a man of faith …'

A pair of blinking eyes responded.

‘… and intelligence. The motive for Monsieur de Larnay's anger at his half-sister is not one with which a pious man of honour would wish to be associated. It is of a personal nature and … how should I say … reprehensible in the extreme.'

‘What are you trying to tell me?' said the offended Florin, amused at his own duplicity.

‘He failed to mention that aspect to you, and the true nature of his resentment.'

‘Indeed!' agreed Nicolas, who had understood perfectly that Eudes was not motivated by religious zeal and the defence of the purity of the faith.

‘In short, he has made you waste your precious time,' continued Artus, ‘for which I insist on compensating you. Nobody is aware yet that an inquiry has been instigated against Madame de Souarcy. Therefore you may call a halt to it.'

Nicolas was enjoying himself greatly. Power. Power was finally his – the power to slap down the Comte, to send him packing. The power to be his superior. He gave a clumsy show of wounded indignation in order to make it clear to the other man that he was mocking him.

‘Monsieur … I hardly dare believe that you are offering me money in order to … Do you imagine that I would have been to see Madame de Souarcy had I not been convinced of the
legitimacy of her half-brother's suspicions concerning her? I am indeed a man of God. I have given Him my labour and my life.'

‘How much?'

‘Monsieur, I must ask you to leave here at once and never return. You have offended both me and the Church. Out of respect for your reputation I bid you, let it rest.'

Artus understood the implicit threat and, while it did not unduly alarm him, something else made him feel far more uneasy. What hidden power was protecting Nicolas Florin, making him feel so unassailable that he could allow himself the luxury of mocking a lord? Certainly not that cipher Eudes de Larnay.

He recalled Agnès's suspicion: something far darker and more fearsome was at work behind these accusations against her.

On the road back to Authon, Artus came to a decision.

If necessary, Nicolas Florin would die – an inconspicuous death that would have all the appearance of being an accident. He was clear in his mind that the annihilation of harmful vermin did not constitute a crime. His mouth set in a grimace. All the more so as he would afterwards turn the vermin's weapons against Agnès's enemies. He would loudly proclaim that God's judgement had intervened. That God had punished Nicolas for his inclemency and injustice. In His infinite wisdom and His magnificent goodness He had spared the innocent Agnès. While most people now had reservations regarding divine intervention, which had never once been proven during the many trials by ordeal,
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none would dare contradict him.

Artus relaxed and Ogier shook his mane in harmony with his master's changed mood.

If necessary, he was prepared. Though he hoped a reversal of fortune would spare him from having to bloody his hands outside the field of honourable combat.