The Lady Agnes Mystery, Volume 1 (47 page)

‘I would prefer not to have to talk to you. I’ve never liked you, although I never expected to have any reason to distrust you.’ She turned back to the Abbess, her voice softening again:

‘Reverend Mother, pray tell me, who is looking after Thibaut?’

It was Éleusie’s turn now to lower her gaze. Annelette barely recognised her voice as she uttered the terrible words:

‘He joined your father shortly afterwards.’

Yolande did not understand what her Reverend Mother had just said to her. She insisted, puzzled:

‘He joined him … how? Where? I …’

‘He is dead, my dear child.’

An eerie smile appeared on the lips of the sister in charge of the granary as she leaned towards the distressed woman and asked:

‘I don’t … What are you saying?’

Éleusie felt a wrenching pain in her chest and she repeated in an almost aggressive tone:

‘Thibaut is dead, Yolande. Your son died nearly two years ago, a few months after his grandfather.’

Annelette had the impression that Yolande’s life was draining out of her as she watched the woman crumple. A strange sound like wheezing bellows filled the room, followed by a moan that gradually grew louder and louder until it exploded into a scream. Yolande whirled round in ever-faster circles, clawing at her face, unable to stop the piercing scream rising from her throat and pervading the room seemingly without her needing to take a breath. She slumped to her knees, panting uncontrollably as though she were choking to death. Annelette and Éleusie stood motionless, staring at her dumbstruck. How many minutes passed, filled only by the frenzied sobs of a grieving mother, the groans of a dying animal?

Suddenly the groaning stopped. Yolande looked up at them with crazed eyes, her face twisted with rage. She got to her feet using both hands. Éleusie rushed over to assist her, to embrace her, but Yolande leapt backwards, pointing her finger at her and snarling:

‘How could you …? Cruel traitress, you’re no better than your henchwoman, the apothecary. A couple of nasty, evil madwomen.’

Éleusie, incredulous, stepped back from her daughter. Yolande continued raging at her, and Annelette, afraid she might attack the Abbess, prepared to intervene.

‘How dare you invent such a despicable lie? Did you have to sink to such depths? Do you think I am a fool? You made up this monstrous story in the hope that I would give you the
name of the kind friend who brings me news. Never! I can see through your wicked ploy. And do you know how? Because my little boy is with me every second of the day. Because if he had died, I would have died instantly in order to be with him. Wicked monsters! You will be cursed for this!’ She interrupted herself, clasping her hand to her mouth to stifle a hysterical laugh. ‘I demand, Reverend Mother, that you request my immediate transfer to another of our order’s abbeys. I wish to flee as soon as possible the stinking pit you and your disciples have dug in this place. I am sure I will not be the only one to demand a transfer. Others have seen through your despicable scheming.’

Annelette thought that Yolande had finally tipped over into madness. She interceded to try to calm her:

‘Yolande, you are mistaken. We …’

‘Shut up, you demented poisoner! Do you suppose I don’t know that you are the culprit? Oh, you are very clever and cunning, but you can’t fool me.’

This accusation so took the apothecary nun by surprise that she was incapable of reacting. She tried, however, to reason with her sister:

‘You don’t understand … If I am right, your informant … well, it wouldn’t surprise me if she was the poisoner we are tracking down. If so, then your life is in danger.’

The other woman hissed:

‘A clever try, to be sure, but you’ll have to do better than that to convince me. Murderess!’

Yolande flew out of the Abbess’s study as if the devil were on her tail.

Annelette turned to Éleusie and murmured:

‘I think she has lost her mind.’

The Abbess let out a sob and groaned:

‘Dear God, what have we done?’

Annelette grappled with her own panic. For the first time in her life the tall imperious woman doubted herself. The accusations hurled at her by the sister in charge of the granary – during an unconvincing fit of grief – were unimportant. What was important was the crippling pain she and the Abbess had inflicted upon her. What mattered was the plan Annelette had thought up in order to force her to confess the name of her informant. She was filled with an excruciating sense of shame and heard herself say, almost imploringly:

‘Reverend Mother, may I as an exception sleep in your chambers? I will make a bed on the carpet in your study. I realise that …’

Her apothecary daughter’s eyes, brimming with tears, her trembling lip and quivering chin spoke louder to Éleusie than any words. She agreed in a faltering voice:

‘I dared not propose it myself. We are so alone tonight. And yet, Annelette, there is a battle raging outside, a merciless battle. I bitterly regret the pain we have caused Yolande, but she had to face the terrible truth, no matter what. Thibaut is dead and her informant has been lying to her for two years for reasons that are still unclear to me. In addition … And may God forgive me for what is not heartlessness on my part, for I assure you that my heart bleeds for that poor grieving mother … May God forgive me, but we are all in peril and Yolande’s loss changes nothing. That poor little boy joined his Creator two years ago … Our lives are in danger today or perhaps tomorrow. We will mourn our dead later. The beast must be killed first, and quickly.’

Annelette sighed and walked over to her Mother Superior, hands outstretched, and whispered:

‘Thank you for voicing what I no longer dared to think.’

Adèle de Vigneux, the granary keeper, woke up shivering. The thin coverlet had slipped off her bed. She felt for it in the gloom, stifled a yawn and blinked, groggy from sleep. The dormitory was quiet except for the sound of breathing echoing from one end of the huge, icy room to the other. Occasionally somebody moving or coughing broke the monotonous rhythm. A loud snoring rose above the other sounds. It was Blanche de Blinot. Adèle de Vigneux smiled. Age seemed to protect Blanche from troubled dreams.

The young granary keeper pulled the coverlet over her and curled up snugly. Just as she drifted back into oblivion, a silhouette appeared behind the curtains around her cell.

Night was still keeping dawn at bay when they awoke to prepare for lauds.
⁺
Adèle pulled on her robe and adjusted her veil, her eyelids heavy with sleep. She drew back the curtain round her tiny cell and was surprised by the silence that prevailed in the neighbouring cell. Yolande de Fleury was still asleep. She had seemed so agitated the night before that Adèle had enquired after her wellbeing, only to be sharply rebuked. The other woman was so overwrought that the younger woman had not insisted. Yolande had said:

‘Those two madwomen think I’m a fool but they’ll soon discover how wrong they are. I would have felt it, you see. Those are things that a … I mean they are in the blood. Good night, Adèle. Please don’t ask me to explain. I am in a foul mood and would hate to lose my temper with you, who have done nothing.’

Adèle paused. Perhaps a good sleep had helped her sister regain her composure. She pulled aside the drape and whispered:

‘Yolande dear, Yolande … It’s time to get up.’

There was no reply. She took a step forward. Something about the position of the sleeping woman alarmed her. She touched the hand lying on top of the coverlet.

A scream rang out through the dormitory. The nuns all stopped what they were doing and looked at one another. Berthe de Marchiennes was the first to emerge from this dreamlike trance. She rushed over to Adèle’s cell. The young woman was repeating the same words, like a litany:

‘Her hand is ice-cold … Her hand is ice-cold, it isn’t normal, she’s ice-cold, I tell you …’

Berthe drew back the cover sharply. Yolande de Fleury was lying with her mouth wide open. Purple-red scratch marks disfigured the pale skin on her neck. One of her legs was dangling over the side of the bed.

The cellarer nun closed the dead woman’s eyes, turned to Adèle de Vigneux and said in a soft voice:

‘She is dead. Please be so good as to fetch our Reverend Mother and Annelette Beaupré.’

Adèle stood rooted to the spot, her eyes moving between Berthe and the ice-cold corpse.

‘That’s an order, Adèle. Go and inform our Reverend Mother immediately.’

The young woman suddenly seemed to emerge from her stupor, and disappeared. Berthe sat down on the edge of Yolande’s bed. She clasped her hands together in prayer:

‘We are your humble devoted servants. Do not forsake us.’

T
he horses were exhausted and their riders scarcely any fresher by the time they reached the town of Alençon at dusk. The destrier, Ogier, was tossing his head and snorting; a cloud of vapour surrounded the stallion's flared nostrils and his chest heaved with the effort of breathing. Clément's mare, Sylvestre, quivered with tiredness, almost prancing as she walked, as though she were nervous of stumbling. Artus patted the neck of his magnificent mount and murmured:

‘Steady! Steady! My brave steed. Our journey is done and I have found fine lodgings for you. My heartfelt thanks, Ogier. You are an even hardier beast than when I broke you in.'

The horse raised his head, shaking his pitch-black mane and flattening his ears in exhaustion.

Clément jumped down from his mare and stroked her muzzle – he was no less grateful to her for this punishing race against time, which was running short.

The ostler arrived to take the exhausted animals to be groomed. He tugged roughly on Ogier's bit and the horse threatened to rear up.

‘Whoa, you oaf! Nobody manhandles my faithful steed's mouth like that!' Artus shouted. ‘Show him a little respect or he'll buck you at the first opportunity, and quite rightly. The same goes for the mare. Be careful. You can't ask an animal to give its all and then treat it like a beast of burden. These creatures have nearly killed themselves to get us here at breakneck speed. Treat them in the manner they deserve – and for which I am paying
you handsomely – or you'll have me to answer to.'

The ostler did not need telling twice and gently cajoled the two mounts until they consented to walk on.

Clément followed Artus d'Authon through the streets of Alençon. How tall he was and what big steps he took, the child thought, as he did his best to keep up. All of a sudden Artus stopped, almost causing Clément to slam into his back.

‘He should come out soon. I'll point him out to you. Follow him, and when you've discovered where he lodges make your way directly to La Jument-Rouge,' he said, gesturing towards a nearby tavern, ‘and don't try anything, do you hear?'

‘Yes, my lord.'

‘… I'm warning you not to disobey me and try anything foolish, Clément. You may be brave, but you're not big or strong enough to take him on. I am. You will greatly harm your lady if you do not follow my instructions. Do you understand that if he slips through our fingers tonight, tomorrow Madame Agnès will die a thousand deaths?'

‘I know, my lord. And then will you kill him?'

‘I will. He has left me no other choice. It is a small matter in the end and I probably should have done it sooner. I could kick myself for hoping I could convince him.'

The Inquisition headquarters were strangely abuzz with activity when they arrived. Clerks were darting in and out of the place and men-at-arms with sullen faces rushed about for no apparent reason. Amid the general mayhem, the Comte d'Authon, flanked by Clément, walked towards the main entrance and went in. A skinny young friar, whom Artus did not recognise, came running up to them.

‘M-my lord, my lord,' he stammered, giving a quick bow. ‘He is dead. God be praised for doing justice. The wicked beast is dead.'

Sensing the Comte's bewilderment, he added:

‘Agnan, my name is Agnan. I was chief clerk to that evil inquisitor. I was there when you came and tried to reason with him. I knew it was a waste of precious time. But it doesn't matter any more. He died as he lived, like a wicked sinner.' Agnan almost shrieked: ‘God has passed judgement! His ineffable verdict has come down to earth like a revelation. The innocent dove, Madame de Souarcy, is free. Nicolas Florin's other victims, too. The judgement of God requires all his cases to be closed, permanently.'

‘How did he die? When?'

‘Last night. At the hands of a passing drunkard. It seems he invited the man into his house, the house he extorted from some poor soul whom he tortured to death. There was a struggle, ending in that devil's murder. Monsieur … We have witnessed a miracle … God intervened to save Madame de Souarcy, and … but it comes as no surprise to me. I looked into that woman's eyes, she reached out and touched me with her hand and I understood …'

‘What did you understand?' Artus asked calmly, for the young man's exalted speech troubled him.

‘I understood that she was … different. I understood that this woman was … unique. I am unable to describe it in words, my lord, and you must think me out of my mind. But I know. I know that I have been touched by perfection and that I will never be the same again. He also knew. He emerged from her cell stirred to the depths, his eyes shining with the indescribable light.'

‘Who?' insisted Artus, sure that the young man had not lost
his mind, that his garbled speech concealed a profound truth.

‘Why, the knight of course … The Knight Hospitaller.'

‘Who?' the Comte d'Authon almost cried out.

‘I assumed that you knew one another … I can tell you nothing more, Monsieur. With all due respect, please do not ask. No man has the right or the power to question a miracle. Madame de Souarcy is waiting for you in our infirmary. She has been through a terrible ordeal, but her courage is matched only by her purity. What joy you will feel in her presence! What joy … What joy I felt. Just imagine … She touched me, she looked straight into my eyes.'

Agnan wriggled free from Artus's restraining hand and ran off, leaving Artus and Clément speechless.

Agnès was raving, although the friar who was looking after her reassured them as to her physical health. Lash wounds were quick to heal. On the other hand, Madame de Souarcy was suffering from a fever that required her to spend a few days in bed, where she would receive the best care. Clément and Artus sat at her bedside. Occasionally, she would murmur a few incomprehensible words before sinking back into semi-consciousness. Suddenly, she opened her eyes, sat up straight and cried out:

‘Clément … No, never!'

‘I am right beside you, Madame. Oh, Madame, I beg you, please get better,' sobbed the child, his head in his hands.

Artus's heart was in his throat and his soul in torment; he was overjoyed that an alleged drunkard, whom he was certain was the Knight Hospitaller, had slain Florin, and at the same time devastated that the knight had got there before him. What a fool! He had tried to negotiate, to buy the man, when he should have
stopped wasting time and unsheathed his sword. He had not saved Agnès, he had not earned her gratitude, and he would never forgive himself for it. He would have given his life for her, without hesitation. He was angry at the knight even as he felt grateful to him. Her other saviour had preceded him by a few hours, that was all, a few hours that had made all the difference. And that young friar Agnan, whose words Artus had not understood. Agnan, whose life had been illuminated because Agnès's hand had brushed against his hand or cheek. And suddenly Artus understood. He understood that this extraordinary woman who had stolen his heart and soul was unique, just as the young clerk had said. He understood that her attraction went deeper than her outward intelligence, courage, charm and beauty. And yet even as he held her slender hand between his, he could not help but ask who this woman really was. Everyone who knew her had been transformed in a way that could not be explained by love: Agnan, Clément, the knight, he himself … to name only those he knew. Who was she really?

In the days that followed tongues began to wag. Artus and Clément had found satisfactory lodgings at La Jument-Rouge. Everyone was talking, gossiping and conjecturing. The streets were alive with rumour and speculation. Even the local stoker and potter had revelations to make, tales to tell containing a mixture of truth and hyperbole. Nicolas Florin's brutality, his cruelty, his corruption, his taste for riches became common knowledge. He was even accused of sorcery, of having sold his soul in exchange for power, and it was rumoured that he had held frequent black masses. The humble folk unleashed themselves upon this man whom they had at first adored, then feared and finally come to hate. The episcopate, which had hitherto turned a blind eye,
finally intervened, decreeing that the Grand Inquisitor's remains would not be buried in consecrated ground. This declaration reassured the masses, who, up until the day before, had bowed to Florin, also turning a blind eye to his notorious dealings, but now, no longer fearing reprisals, they turned against him as one.

Agnès's scars soon healed thanks to the constant attention of those around her. A few days after the death of her would-be executioner, she got out of bed and walked a few paces. Clément scolded her for rushing matters and Artus implored her not to overexert herself.

‘Come now, dear gentlemen, I'm not as fragile as you think. It would take a lot more than this to finish off a woman like me. Any doubts I might have had about that have been dispelled.'

Despite the supplications of Artus, who longed for her to accept his hospitality, she decided to return directly to her manor in order to reassure her people and attend to the affairs she had been obliged to neglect.