The Lady Agnes Mystery, Volume 1 (32 page)

‘What is your opinion of him?'

‘It is not a question of opinion, dear knight, but of fact. He is the worst kind of vermin. No. Vermin is not the right word. He is vile, corrupt, beyond redemption.'

‘I understand. Things have been made even easier for the likes of him since the Pope granted inquisitors the right to absolve each other of any blunders or transgressions.
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And this generosity has been extended to allow them to preside over torture sessions, which was previously forbidden. I'll wager Florin could not have wished for a more appetising gift.'

‘They frighten me,' murmured Hermine.

‘They frighten everybody and the fear they inspire is their main weapon. Tell me about the meeting.'

She recounted every detail of her encounter with Florin, including the moist caress he had left on the palm of her hand. He listened, nodding occasionally.

‘There is something I don't quite understand, Francesco,' she
continued. ‘You must have already guessed all this from what your aunt told you about Florin's dealings with Larnay.'

‘Of course, and …' He paused, then changed his mind: ‘You see, my dear Hermine, a man is being condemned and I must know whether his cruelty is the result of a sickness of the soul or of the mind. Thanks to you, I am now certain that there is nothing wrong with his reason since he sells trials for personal gain. I shall make one more appeal to him … and if he fails to respond, his time of grace will be up.'

She paused before asking the dreadful question:

‘Is he to die?'

‘I do not know. I … do not plan an enemy's death. It either happens or it does not.' He grew silent for a moment before continuing: ‘The landlord has agreed to let you change upstairs. My dear friend, it is time for you to return to Chartres. I have hired a horse-drawn carriage for you. I do not know how to thank you enough.'

‘By not thanking me at all. As I have already said, we are responsible for our debts whether we are lenders or borrowers. You will never be rid of me or of the memory of me, my handsome knight.'

He studied her in silence for a moment and then closed his eyes and smiled:

‘I have no wish to be, Hermine. Until we meet again, my fearless one.'

Her eyes brimming with tears, she tried to disguise her emotion, declaring in a sharp voice:

‘Don't forget to return the fur-trim coat to the draper's and above all to get back the outrageously high deposit. These people would suck us dry if they could! On the other hand, the shoes are in a pitiful state and they are sure to demand compensation.'

‘I knew Florin would notice them.'

T
he grime sticking to her hands and legs disgusted her. Her scalp itched and the stench of her dress, soiled with sweat and sour milk from the soup she ate each evening with a spoon she could not see, sickened her. She had removed her veil, dipped a corner of it in the ewer of water and tried to wash herself as best she could. How long had she been there? She had lost all sense of time. Three, five, eight, ten days? She had no idea and clung to the thought that sooner or later the inquisitor would have to interrogate her. And then … No. She must avoid thinking about what would happen then. Florin was counting on using fear to break her and make his task easier. There is nothing more destructive than despair – except perhaps hope.

Had it been night or day when she slept? The nightmares had kept coming, but she had discovered a way of keeping her waking fears at bay by reliving the most precious moments in her life. They were few and far between and she was obliged to conjure up the same ones over and over again: gathering flowers, harvesting honey, the birth of a foal, Clément's knowing smile. She had spent hours reciting the ballads of Madame Marie de France,* starting again from the beginning when she forgot the words. She had recreated entire conversations of no import: stories Madame Clémence had told her, instructions she would give for a dinner, soothing words she used with Mathilde, a discussion on theology with the chaplain. Nothing of any import. Her life amounted to nothing of any import.

Agnès jumped. The sound of heavy footsteps on the stone stairs that she had descended she could not remember when,
followed by Florin who was eager to show her her cell. She stiffened, listening hard, trying to interpret every sound. Was he coming to interrogate her?

The steps ended long before they reached her door. The sound of something sliding and the shuffle of feet. A heavy object being dragged. She rushed over and pressed her ear to the wooden panel and waited, straining to hear through the silence.

A shriek followed by a wail. Who was it? The man who had begged her to die quickly?

The shrieking began again and continued for what seemed to her like an eternity of pain.

The torture chamber was right next to the cells.

Her mind became awash with dark, screaming, bloody images. Agnès slumped to her knees in the mud and wept. She wept as though the world were about to end. She wept for that man, or another, for the weak and innocent – she wept because of the power of brutes.

She did not pray. She would have needed to invoke death for her prayer to have any meaning at all.

Was it morning when she awoke on her pallet with no memory of having dragged her body there? Had the endless torment just finished? Had she fainted? Had her mind mercifully allowed her a moment's oblivion?

So, the torture chamber was right next to the cells. In this way the torments of other prisoners fed the fear of those still waiting in the evil-smelling darkness of their cells.

She felt a slight sense of relief in that place that tolerated none. There would be the weeks of questioning first. The intrinsic obscenity of the thought shocked her: those others she had seen crouched on the floor were being tortured, not her, not yet.
The intention of Florin and the other inquisitors became clear. They wanted to break them, to reduce them to pitiful, terrified, tormented souls in order to convince them that salvation lay in siding with their executioners, in confessing to sins they had never committed, in denouncing others, in destroying their innocence.

Break. Break their limbs, their bones, their consciences, their souls.

Someone was approaching. Her heart missed a beat as the footsteps paused in front of her cell. A wave of nausea made her throat tighten as the bolt grated. She stood facing the door. Florin stooped to enter the tiny space, a sconce torch in his hand.

The inquisitor enquired directly in a soft voice:

‘Have you made peace with your soul, Madame?'

The frightened words ‘Indeed, my Lord Inquisitor' echoed in Agnès's head and yet she heard herself reply calmly and unfalteringly:

‘My soul was never in turmoil, Monsieur.'

‘It is my job to find that out. I consider the interrogation room more suitable for the initial cross-examination of a lady than this cell which' – he sniffed the lingering odour of excrement and stale food in the air and screwed up his face – ‘which smells like a sewer.'

‘I have become habituated to it, as you assured me I would when I arrived. However, the other room would allow you to sit down and me to stand up straight.'

‘Do you give me your word, Madame, that you do not need shackles or a guard?'

‘I doubt that it is possible to escape from the Inquisition headquarters. Besides, I am weak from these few days of semi-fasting.'

Florin nodded then turned to leave. Agnès followed him. A
fair-haired youth was waiting a few feet away, carefully holding an escritoire upon which stood an ink-horn and a small oil lamp. He was the scribe charged with recording her declarations.

As they passed the barred cells, Agnès searched in vain for the man who had grasped her ankle. Her eyes closed in a gesture of quiet relief as she realised that he must be dead. He was free of them.

The nearer they came to the low-ceilinged room, the more Agnès felt as if the air were coming alive. It felt lighter, more vibrant. They crossed the enormous room to the hallway. She felt curiously elated at the sight of a patch of sky heavy with rain clouds, seen through the tiny windows looking out onto the courtyard. They turned right and walked up another staircase made of dark wood. When they reached the landing, Florin turned to her. The effort of climbing fourteen steps had left Agnès breathless. Florin observed:

‘Fasting allows the mind to soar free.'

‘You are living proof of it.'

She bit her lip in fright. Had she taken leave of her senses? What did she think she was saying? Surely, if she angered him, he would wreak his revenge. He had all the means at his disposal.

Florin lost his composure for an instant. This was the other woman speaking, the one he had already glimpsed behind Agnès's pretty face. He could have sworn that she was completely oblivious to the transformation. He was mistaken. An inexorable calm washed over Agnès, flushing away the seeds of terror Florin was attempting to sow; the powerful shades whose presence she had felt during her first encounter with the inquisitor had returned.

They stopped before a high door, which the young scribe hurriedly opened. Agnès walked through, looking around her as
though she were a curious visitor. For the past few moments, she had been overwhelmed by an odd sense of unreality, as though her mind were floating outside her body.

Agnès stood in the middle of the freezing, cavernous room, her mind a complete blank. Strangely, the exhaustion she had felt when she left her cell had given way to a pleasant languor.

Four men sat waiting impassively at a long table: a notary and his clerk, as required by the procedure, and two Dominicans, besides the inquisitor. The mendicant friars sat staring down at their clasped hands resting on the table, and Agnès thought to herself that despite the difference in age they could almost be twins. It was in Florin's power to call upon two ‘lay persons of excellent repute', but such people were less well versed in theology and so less intimidating to the would-be heretic. Four austere-looking men dressed in black robes sitting together formed a threatening wall.

Monge de Brineux, Comte Artus d'Authon's bailiff, would not be present at the interrogation as Florin had neglected to invite him.

The inquisitor sat down in the imposing, ornately sculpted armchair at one end of the table, while the young scribe settled himself on the bench.

She listened through a fog to Florin's booming voice:

‘State your Christian names, surname and status, Madame.'

‘Agnès Philippine Claire de Larnay, Dame de Souarcy.'

At this point the notary rose to his feet and read out:

‘In
nomine Domini, amen
. On this the fifth day of November in the year of Our Lord 1304, in the presence of the undersigned Gauthier Richer, notary at Alençon, and in the company of one of his clerks and two appointed witnesses, Brother Jean and Brother Anselme, both Dominicans of the diocese of Alençon,
born respectively in Rioux and Hurepal, Agnès Philippine Claire de Larnay does appear before the venerable Brother Nicolas Florin, Dominican, Doctor in Theology and Grand Inquisitor appointed to the region of Alençon.'

The notary sat down again without glancing at Agnès. Florin continued:

‘Madame, you are accused of having given refuge to a heretic by the name of Sybille Chalis, your lady's maid, of having helped her escape our justice and of having allowed yourself to be seduced by heretical ideas. Further accusations have been made against you which we consider it preferable not to discuss here today.'

The procedure allowed him to keep that trump card in case she managed miraculously to clear herself of the charge of heresy.

‘Do you admit to these facts, Madame?'

‘I admit to having employed in my service one Sybille Chalis, who died in childbirth during the winter of 1294. I swear on my soul that I never had the slightest suspicion of her heresy. As for the seductive power of such heretical abominations, I know nothing of it.'

‘We will be the judge of that,' Florin retorted, suppressing a smile. ‘Do you confess to having kept the son of this heretic, a certain Clément, who in turn entered your service?'

‘As I have already stated, I did not suspect his mother's heresy, and saw in the gesture an act of Christian charity. The child has been brought up to love and respect the Church.'

‘Indeed … and what of your own love of the Holy Church?'

‘It is absolute.'

‘Is it indeed?'

‘It is.'

‘In that case why not prove it here and now? Do you swear on your soul and on the death and resurrection of Christ to tell the whole truth? Do you swear that you will conceal nothing and omit nothing?'

‘I swear.'

‘Take heed, young woman. The seriousness of this oath far outweighs any you have sworn thus far.'

‘I am aware of that.'

‘Very well. Since it is my job to try by every means possible to clear you of the charges, I must ask you before we begin to tell me whether you know of any persons who might seek to harm you?'

She stared at him, feigning puzzlement through her exhaustion. Brother Anselme, the younger of the two Dominicans, believing the point needed explaining to her, cast a searching glance at the other friar before venturing:

‘Sister, do you believe anyone capable of gravely perjuring themselves in order to harm you, out of hatred, envy or sheer wickedness?'

A second trap. Clément had warned her. It was better to supply a long list of potential informers than to absolve out of hand a close friend or relative who might turn out to be her fiercest accuser.

‘I do. And for reasons so disgraceful that I am ashamed to mention them.'

‘Pray give us their names, Madame,' the Dominican demanded.

‘My half-brother, Baron Eudes de Larnay, who has hounded me with his incestuous desires since I was eight. His servant Mabile, whose surname I do not know and whom he introduced into my household in order to spy on me. Finding nothing to
satisfy her master, she invented tales of heresy and shameful carnal relations in order to tarnish my name.'

Agnès went quiet as she tried to think who else might wish her harm. She hoped that her chaplain, Brother Bernard, had spared her, but after all she did not know him well. How could she be sure?

‘Who else?' Brother Anselme insisted.

‘My new chaplain, who does not know me well, might have misjudged me. Perhaps one of my serfs or peasants resents paying me tithes. My servant girl Adeline. I cannot imagine what possible grudge she could hold against me, but I have reached the point where I trust no one. Perhaps she took offence when I told her off one day.'

‘Oh, we know that sort with their vipers' tongues. They turn up at every trial and their accusations are treated with caution. In contrast, a man of the cloth … However, we shall see. Anybody else?'

‘I am not guilty of any discrimination.'

‘If this is the truth, then God's acknowledgement will enlighten us accordingly. Anybody else, Madame?' Brother Anselme insisted, glancing again at the other Dominican, who remained impassive.

Agnès thought quickly: Clément, Gilbert the simpleton, Artus d'Authon, Monge de Brineux, Éleusie de Beaufort, Jeanne d'Amblin and many others occurred to her, but no one who was capable of perjuring themselves out of sheer spite. Gilbert, perhaps. He was a gentle soul but weak and malleable enough for an inquisitor easily to put words in his mouth. She added regretfully:

‘Gilbert, one of my farm hands. He is a simpleton and understands very little of anything. He lives in a world of his
own.' Suddenly fearful of endangering him, she corrected herself: ‘But his soul has always remained faithful to Our Lord, who loves the pure and innocent …'

She weighed her words. She must avoid implying that Florin was assembling false accusations or biased testimonies. She was still unsure whether the two friars Anselme and Jean were Florin's henchmen, but she did not want to risk vexing them by incriminating a representative of their order, a doctor in theology moreover.

‘… He is dull-witted and slow of speech and it would be easy to draw stories out of him that might appear strange or even suspicious.'

‘Madame …' the Dominican chided her softly in a sad voice.

‘Do you truly believe that we would consider the accusations of a simpleton?'

She was sure they would not, but this way the notary was obliged to record that Gilbert was a simpleton. Any accusation forced out of him, then twisted to show his lady in a bad light, would be considered suspect.