The Lady Agnes Mystery, Volume 1

by Andrea Japp

  ‘They say Guillaume de Nogaret is a dangerous man.’

  ‘He is. And all the more so as he possesses one of the most brilliant minds I have ever known. Remember, he is the worthy successor of Pierre Flote and, like him, a jurist and staunch advocate of the supremacy of the monarchy’s power over that of the French clergy. We must under no circumstances allow a schism to occur in the Church, or any part of it to break away from the authority of the Pope. If this religious and political controversy were to assume greater proportions, the result would be catastrophic.’

  ‘For the monarchy’s power would become a divine right. Philip would rule directly through God, making him the highest authority in the realm.’

  The prior nodded. He had spent entire nights devising strategies to defend against the coming avalanche, only at dawn to reject every last one as hopeless. The only remaining solution was to anticipate and prevent Philip from putting an end to the supreme authority of the Church over all the monarchs of Christendom.

  Leone had regained some of his composure. He felt far away from the island sanctuary. He was already there, in the one place where his quest could continue.

  ‘What practical information can you provide that will help me to …’ he began, when Arnaud de Viancourt interrupted him:

  ‘We are groping in the dark, brother. Any conjecture on my part would be a dangerous imprudence.’

  ‘And my weapons, my powers?’

  The prior appeared to hesitate and then, in a clipped tone that left the Knight unperturbed, he replied:

  ‘The choice is yours, provided they serve Christ, the Pope and … our order.’

  Had he been in any doubt, this declaration would have made it clear. Like the other orders, the Knights Hospitaller were strictly hierarchical and individual initiatives were strongly discouraged. The free rein given him was easy to interpret: the order was facing the most ruinous crisis it had known since its formation almost two centuries earlier.

  ‘Will my mission be recorded?’

  ‘You are not afraid, are you, Francesco? I cannot believe it. No. You know how suspicious we are of written records. That is why we only recently felt the need to have one of our own, Guillaume de Saint-Estène, copy out our founding texts. Few written transcripts of our rules exist and they must never find their way outside the order or be copied, as you know. You are not afraid, are you?’ the prior repeated.

  ‘No,’ murmured Francesco de Leone and smiled. His first smile that early morning.

  He knew that true fear would come later. What he felt now was an intense pressure crushing him, and he had to stop himself from slumping to his knees on the dust-covered ground to pray or perhaps even to cry out.

  The last hours of daylight lingered in the west. Francesco de Leone had worked like a slave the whole day long, missing both meals as part of a private fast. He had helped care for ‘our lords the sick’ – one of the duties of the Order of the Hospitallers that distinguished it from the other military orders – as well as providing training in the use of arms for some of the recently admitted novices. The heat and physical exhaustion had offered him a vague respite.

  Might Benoît die? Might everything fall into place now? After four long years of a quest that had been as discreet and unrelenting as it had been fruitless, might a political threat lead him to a doorway hitherto hidden? The reason for his journey was admittedly this difficult mission. And yet the coincidence seemed too great for it to be entirely accidental. A sign. He had waited so long for the Sign. He was going to France, to the country where the Ineffable Trace had re-emerged and with full powers granted to him by the prior and consequently by the Grand-Master himself. He was going to discover there at last, perhaps, the meaning of the Light that had immersed him for a fleeting and divine moment at the heart of the Santa Costanza in Rome.

  A ripple of anxiety coursed through him like a fever. What if it were only another illusion, another deadly disappointment? Would he have the strength to go on?

  That choice was not his to make either.

  Hoc quicumque stolam sanguine proluit, absergit maculas; et roseum decus, quo fiat similis protinus Angelis.13

  Chartres, May 1304

  Night was slowly falling. The clamour in the streets had gradually died down. It was almost supper time. The cloaked figure stepped over a pile of debris blocking the central drain and turned right into Rue du Cygne.

  The foul acrid smell drifting on the breeze gave a better indication of the tavern’s location than any sign. It was one of those establishments where workers and craftsmen from the guilds gathered in the evenings – in this case the tanners’ and leatherworkers’ guild. While some fiery preachers described them as ‘dens of iniquity’ that encouraged sinful behaviour, the truth was far more benign. They were drinking places with a family atmosphere: people settled most of their deals and differences there and stopped for a welcome rest surrounded by a friendly din.

  The cloaked figure paused in front of the door. Laughter and cries echoed from inside. He had deliberately arrived late so that the customers’ curiosity would not be roused by seeing a solitary figure seated at a table. The person he was meeting would then already be waiting inside. He drew his hood down over his forehead and, clasping the sides of his heavy cloak, which was far too warm for such a sultry evening, he pushed open the door.

  Two steps. Two steps were all it took. An ocean; a universe. A gulf separating innocence from almost certain damnation. And yet innocence can be a burden and above all rarely profitable. Innocence affords private satisfaction; money and power simple recompense.

  The cloaked figure descended the first step and then the second.

  Except perhaps for a welcoming smile from one woman sitting at a table, his entrance elicited little response from the tavern’s regular customers.

  Calmly crossing the trodden earth floor strewn with straw, the cloaked figure approached a table towards the back of the room, which was plunged into darkness. The man he was meeting had snuffed out the oil lamp in front of him.

  The figure sat down. The hubbub of conversation around them was in full swing and would conveniently drown out the transaction that was about to take place.

  The man was plump and jovial. He filled a second glass with wine and said in a hushed voice:

  ‘I ordered the best. Since her husband passed away, the landlady has developed the regrettable habit of watering down the drink. It’s only natural. She buys it for a few pennies a barrel from one of her nieces, a nun at Épernon. They say the abbey possesses some fine presses.’

  Did he really believe that such harmless banter would detract from the enormity of the matter that had brought them there? And yet, the cloaked figure betrayed no irritation but remained silent, bolt upright, awaiting his next move.

  At last, the man, a former barber-surgeon if what he said was true – that is a butcher14 of beards and of human flesh – vexed by the silence of the person opposite, slid his fleshy hand across the table. Clasped in his palm between his hairy thumb and fingers was a phial wrapped in a thin strip of paper. A second hand wearing a thick brown leather glove reached out from under the cloak to take it, and at the same time set down a bulging purse, which the barber quickly pocketed. He explained in an almost piqued, slightly menacing voice:

  ‘I’ve brought the instructions. It requires somewhat delicate handling. The aconite enters through the skin. It’s slower but every bit as lethal as if it’s swallowed.’

  The cloaked figure stood up, not having uttered a single word, nor tasted a single drop of wine, which would have meant pulling back the hood of the cloak.

  Two steps. Only two steps to climb. Back in that dimly lit room buzzing with relaxed conversation lay the past. It no longer bore any relation to the future.

  The past had been inflicted, had imposed itself with all its cruel injustices. The future would be freely chosen. But first it must be fashioned.

  Clairets Abbey, Perche, May 1304

  The abbey o
f the Order of Bernadine Cistercians was generously patronised and exempt from duties, as well as enjoying the privilege of low, middle and high justice, borne out by the gibbet erected on the gallows site. The abbey had permission to harvest timber for fuel and building from the forests owned by the Comte de Chartres. In addition to these charitable contributions, the abbey owned land at Masle and Theil that brought in a sizeable annual income, not to mention the numerous donations from local burghers or nobles or even from the more affluent peasants who had been pouring in steadily for years. The abbey’s dedication service15 had been witnessed by a certain Guillaume, commander of the Knights Templar at Arville.

  Éleusie de Beaufort, Abbess of Clairets since the advent of her widowhood five years earlier, set down the letter written on Italian paper,16 which she had received only moments before in the strictest secrecy. Had she not been convinced by the seals protecting the letter, she would certainly have burnt it or else dismissed it as a blasphemous fraud.

  She looked up at the exhausted messenger who stood in silence awaiting her reply. She could tell by the man’s despondent expression that he knew the contents of the missive. She played for time:

  ‘My brother in Christ, you must rest a few hours. Your journey will be a long one.’

  ‘Time is running out, Abbess. I have no desire to rest and as for my needs, well, they must wait.’

  She smiled at him sadly and corrected herself:

  ‘Then let us say I request the favour of a few moments’ reflection and contemplation.’

  ‘I consent, but do not forget that time is running out.’

  Éleusie de Beaufort walked over to a doorway concealed behind a hanging. She led the man up a carved stone staircase to a heavy padlocked door that hid from the eyes of the world, and her fellow nuns, her private library – one of the most prestigious and the most dangerous in all Christendom. The counts and bishops of Chartres, various scholars, not to mention a few kings, princes and even some knights, had for decades deposited there the works they brought back from all four corners of the world, some of them in languages the Abbess, despite her great learning, was unable to decipher. She was the secret guardian of this science, of these books – most of them forgotten by the heirs and descendants of their original donors – and at times she experienced a frisson of uneasiness when she touched their covers. For she knew, she had read in Latin, in French and in the little she was able to decipher of English, that some of these volumes contained unrepeatable secrets. The mysteries of the universe were explained in three or four of them – possibly more for she read no Greek (a language that was little known and even looked down upon at the time), Arabic or Egyptian, and even less Aramaic. These secrets must remain beyond the reach of men, and no higher authority, save that of the Holy Father, would convince her otherwise. Why, then, did she not simply destroy them, reduce them to ashes? She had lain awake many a night asking herself that question. She had even got up to go to the great hearth in the library with the intention of fuelling a sacrilegious fire, only to make her way back to bed incapable of carrying out her plan. Why? Because they contained knowledge, and knowledge, however unbelievable, was sacred.

  The Abbess made the messenger as comfortable as she could before unbolting another door opening onto the corridor. Cautiously poking her head out to check that the coast was clear, she walked through and closed it behind her. She made her way swiftly towards the kitchen to fetch a ewer of water, some bread and cheese and perhaps a few slices of smoked bacon – enough to replenish the traveller after his exhausting journey. She hurried along the corridor, like a thief, hugging the walls, listening out for the slightest sound for fear of being surprised.

  A jovial voice rang out behind her. She swung round, summoning up all her strength in order to greet Yolande de Fleury’s words with a smile. The young sister worked in the granary and was accompanied by the granary’s custodian, Sister Adèle de Vigneux. Yolande de Fleury was a small, plump woman whose perpetual good humour, it appeared, nothing could dampen. She enquired:

  ‘Abbess, where are you going in such a hurry? Might we assist you in some task?’

  ‘No, my dear children. I felt a sudden but persistent thirst – a result of my bookkeeping no doubt. A walk to the kitchens will stretch my legs.’

  Éleusie watched the two women disappear round the corner at the end of the corridor. Naturally she trusted her nuns, even her novices, as well as the majority of the lay servants, who were offerings to God. She could no doubt have shared the burden of her secret with some of them: Jeanne d’Amblin, for example, the most loyal of all, intelligent and, despite having no great illusions about the world, an optimist. These qualities, coupled with her tenacity, had encouraged Éleusie to confer on her the challenging task of Extern Sister.17 Adélaïde Condeau was no less of an ally. She had been baptised thus after a cooper discovered her at the edge of a forest of that name. She was only a few weeks old, two or three at the most. The man was not glad of his discovery and took the infant to the abbey. He had no need of a baby girl but the famished newborn infant’s cries had moved him. Despite her youth and impressionability, Adélaïde, too, was already showing evidence of great perseverance coupled with an unwavering faith. Blanche de Blinot, the most senior nun and her prioress and second in command, had long been her confidante. Blanche’s advanced age was her greatest asset, for she forgot most of what she was told. Even Annelette Beaupré, the apothecary nun, for all her tetchiness and arrogance was someone upon whom she knew she could rely. On the other hand, she did not entirely trust Berthe de Marchiennes, the cellarer nun,18 who already occupied that demanding post before Éleusie’s arrival at the abbey. Berthe’s resentment was palpable beneath the façade of her devoutness. Her lack of physical beauty and a dowry had left her no other option but the monastic life, although she would certainly have preferred the secular one.

  No, absolutely not. A secret is best kept when it is shared with no one. And in any case what right had she to burden these good women with dangerous revelations that were difficult to bear? It would be selfish of her. No, none of the sisters must know of this man’s presence. He would leave as he had arrived, like a troubling enigma.

  In order to reach the kitchen, Éleusie decided to cut through the guest house19 that was squeezed in between the hot-room and the storeroom. With the exception of Thibaude de Gartempe, the guest mistress, and possibly of Jeanne d’Amblin, neither of whom were cloistered, she ran little risk of bumping into anyone at that hour. She hadn’t noticed the small figure pressed behind one of the pillars beside the schoolroom door. Clément paused, ashamed at having hidden instinctively. He was disconcerted by the Abbess’s behaviour. Why such caution, such furtiveness in her own convent?

  Back in her study Éleusie de Beaufort sat down behind her heavy oak table. She touched the letter with the tip of her finger. It still bore the two crease marks where it had been folded, and looked inoffensive lying there among the registers to whose pages the Abbess carefully consigned the details of their daily lives: the donations, the harvests, the number and quality of wine barrels in the cellar, the amount of timber felled, received or donated, the births and deaths in the pigeon-house, plus the weight of droppings, which were used as fertiliser, the visits to the sick, the deaths, the levies imposed, the ingredients of the nuns’ meals or their new linen. Half an hour ago, the task had bored her; she had baulked at it and wondered what possible use the endless lists, over which she nevertheless took great care, might one day have. Half an hour ago, she was still unaware how much she would soon mourn the thankless task. In the insignificant space of that half-hour, her world had collapsed, and she had not even sensed the approaching cataclysm that would silently ravage the calm of her study.

  She was choked by a terrible grief. She stood by helplessly as the sanctuary that had been her home for five years was devastated. All those images she had managed to suppress, or rather to eradicate. All those hideous waking nightmares. Would they come back to haunt he
r now? The incomprehensible, bloody, violent and terrifying scenes she was powerless to stop that pulsed through her imagination. At one point, she had thought she was losing her mind, or that a demon was tormenting her with visions of hell. She never knew when she might be visited by the terrifying hallucinations. For nights on end she had prayed to the Holy Virgin for some reprieve. Her prayer had been answered the moment she arrived at the convent. She had almost managed to rid herself even of the memory of them. Were they going to come back? She would rather die than endure them again.

  A woman lay face down on the rack, the blood from the gashes on her back oozing to the floor. The woman was moaning. Her long fair hair was sticky with sweat and blood. A hand brushed against her martyred flesh, pouring a grey powder onto her wounds. The woman arched her back and went limp, fainting. Suddenly Éleusie could make out the pale face. It was she. Éleusie.

  This vision in particular had haunted her all those years ago, night after night for months on end. Éleusie had decided to take her religious vows.

  She had to keep telling herself that it was only a horrible memory, nothing more. She could feel her heart pounding against her chest. Reluctantly she picked up the letter and forced herself to calm down. She proceeded to read it for the tenth time:

  Hoc quicumque stolam sanguine proluit, absergit maculas; et roseum decus, quo fiat similis protinus Angelis.

  The thing she had been dreading for years had caught up with her that day.

  How should she reply to this demand? Could she pretend not to know, not to understand? What foolishness! What did her own blood matter compared to the divine blood that cleansed all sins? Little or nothing.