The Lady Agnes Mystery, Volume 1

by Andrea Japp

  Suddenly she became aware of a pair of eyes boring into her, and she turned to face them. Brother Jean, the one she had never heard speak, was staring at her. It puzzled her when he shook his head slightly, but she would soon understand.

  Florin walked towards her nimbly and gracefully, as though he were gliding over the flagstones.

  ‘Madame de Souarcy. Your dishonesty and the cunning eloquence you have displayed here will be of no use to you now. An angel has guided us to this pure young girl,’ he concluded, gesturing towards Mathilde.

  Agnès looked at the inquisitor and then at her daughter. What was he saying? She would hold the girl in her arms. Everything would be all right then, she was sure. Life would return to normal then. She would protect her, she would do battle with them all, and the young girl would emerge triumphant. Agnès would not tolerate her being imprisoned, forced to endure the same suffering as her mother. It was only then that she noticed Mathilde’s clothes: the sumptuous dress of heavy silk, the veil so sheer she could not recall having seen one finer, her fingers laden with rings. Madame Apolline’s magnificent square turquoise, the Bohemian garnets she had worn on her index finger, her thumb ring studded with grey pearls.

  She did her best to ignore the voices clamouring inside her head and the truth they were trying to foist upon her. One voice broke through her stubborn refusal to hear – that of Clémence – and said in a whisper: ‘Do you see the magnificent amethyst crucifix draped around her neck, my dear? It was left to Madame Apolline by her mother. She wanted to be buried with it. Why do you think Eudes has given it to your daughter? Those pretty wine-coloured beads bought her betrayal.’

  The crucifix. Poor sweet Apolline. She would often kiss it while she prayed, as though somehow it restored some of the love of her mother, snatched from life so young.

  A sigh in her head. Not hers. The voice’s.

  Her own sigh rising up her throat. Agnès felt the floor give way beneath her feet. A cold, dark shadow descended over her thoughts. A stony silence filled her head. She collapsed. During the infinite moment when she saw the flagstones flying towards her, during the infinite moment it took for her to hit the ground, she repeated to herself: what have they done to you, my child? Damned. They are damned and will pay a hundredfold for what they have turned you into.

  When she came to, she was in a tiny room heated by an ember pot. Agnan handed her an earthenware bowl whose contents she swallowed without saying a word. The fiery alcohol made her cough and suffused her chilled body with warmth.

  ‘The cider is strong but you will find it invigorating.’

  ‘How long …’

  ‘Nearly half an hour. You are not with child, are you, Madame?’

  Agnès shook her head and murmured:

  ‘You offend me, Monsieur, I am a widow.’

  ‘Upon my soul, I beg your pardon. Madame …Mademoiselle your daughter has gone to take lunch with Baron de Larnay. The hearing will resume upon their return.’

  She said in a voice she scarcely recognised, a calm, strangely resolute voice:

  ‘So, she was not arrested.’

  ‘No indeed, dear lady, she is your most fearsome accuser … I read her letter to Florin. It is pure poison, so sulphurous that it burns the eyes and fingers. I could not …’

  ‘I understand,’ she interrupted, ‘and I am grateful to you for your brave and daring attempt to warn me.’

  She reached out and touched his hand. The young man blushed and grasped her fingers which he held to his lips. Choked with tears, he stammered:

  ‘I thank you, Madame, from the depths of my soul.’

  ‘But … it is I who am indebted to you. Why do you …’

  ‘No. You are living proof that my life has not been in vain, and for this I can never thank you enough. As God’s weak creature, I will have found greatness if my miserable efforts help to save innocent souls such as yours, for you are innocent, of that there is no doubt. One as ugly as I could hope for nothing more.’

  Suddenly his expression changed. The emotion that had made his voice catch gave way to an unbending resolve:

  ‘Mademoiselle de Souarcy has learned her lesson well, but she is as foolish as she is wicked. This is your only weapon against her.’

  ‘I …’ Agnès tried to reply but Agnan cut her short:

  ‘There is no time, Madame. They will be sending for you shortly.’

  He related her daughter’s damning testimony. She was choked with sobs at first. Then she tried to think who could have so thoroughly corrupted her daughter, and felt overcome by a murderous desire to kill the demon, to cleave his heart in two with her short sword, a gift from Clémence that had remained sheathed since her marriage. She envisaged him falling at her feet, a pool of blood spreading underneath him. That demon Eudes. That demon Florin. And then the truth she had been trying to avoid from the moment she first saw Mathilde in the interrogation room thrust itself upon her. Mathilde had joined the forces of evil, bartering her soul for a few colourful trinkets. As her mother she was at least partially to blame. Undoubtedly she had not prepared her daughter well enough, had not provided her with the means to resist the frivolous yet powerful allure of such trivial things. Perhaps she had lavished too much care and attention on Clément’s education.

  I love you so dearly, Clément. Live, Clément. Live for me.

  We are so alike, Clément. Why are you the only light that enters my cell, the one I cling to in order to stay sane? Live, I beg you. Live for my life’s sake.

  ‘It appals me to be the bearer of this cruel blow, Madame,’ Agnan apologised.

  ‘No, Monsieur. On the contrary, you have made me feel that I am not alone in this hateful place, and whatever becomes of me I cannot thank you enough for that. You have helped me prepare for an event I would never have dared envisage. Thank you, Agnan.’

  He lowered his eyes, profoundly grateful that such a beautiful lady would call him by his Christian name.

  When Agnès came face to face with Mathilde, she was immediately struck by the change in her. Where was the little girl she had brought into the world, had brought up – admittedly fickle and given to tantrums and yet so gay? Before her stood a little woman – a little woman who was no longer her daughter, who was intent upon sending her to the stake. The hatred and resentment she felt for her mother boiled down to a few bits of finery, a few glistening trinkets on her fingers. Agnès had hoped the young girl might try to avoid her gaze. She would have seen in it evidence of some lingering affection or regret, perhaps. Instead Mathilde stared brazenly at her mother with her light-brown eyes, raised her head and pursed her lips.

  What followed had been a nightmare skilfully staged by Florin. The horrors, the absurdities Mathilde had uttered in order to seal her mother’s fate had left Agnès speechless, unable to respond. Thus, if the flesh of her flesh were to be believed, in addition to heresy she was guilty of sorcery and lechery. A strange torpor had overtaken Agnès. She had refused to fight back or even to defend herself. When, after each new lethal outburst from her daughter, Florin had asked her triumphantly: ‘What have you to say to that, Madame?’ she had limited herself to replying repetitively: ‘Nothing.’

  What did the euphoria she sensed in Nicolas Florin matter? Or the brief smiles of encouragement he gave to Mathilde? Nothing. Nothing now.

  ‘If we have understood correctly, you claim that Brother Bernard sprinkled his prayers and sermons with words from a strange, demonic tongue?’ the Grand Inquisitor insisted.

  ‘Yes. It certainly wasn’t Latin, still less French.’

  ‘Did your mother also speak in this evil tongue?’

  ‘I heard her use it, though not as often as the chaplain.’

  ‘It is common knowledge that women have less of an aptitude for languages than men.’

  Maître Richer nodded as he did whenever Florin made a spiteful remark about the fair sex. His ill-tempered little face contorted with petty satisfaction.

  ‘Mademoiselle de Souarc
y, I should like to refer back to Clément, who has so … opportunely disappeared,’ the Grand Inquisitor continued. ‘Do you think that he too was seduced by evil?’

  Mathilde, weary after two hours of cross-examination, felt a renewed vitality. She made a supreme effort to hide the instinctive hatred she felt for that loathsome wart of a boy. In a voice filled with sorrow, she declared:

  ‘I am sure of it. After all, he could have been contaminated in his mother’s womb.’

  Why hadn’t her uncle Eudes anticipated her being questioned about that vile brat? She paused for a moment before elaborating:

  ‘He, too, spoke in that sacrilegious tongue, and with consummate ease. Indeed, now I come to think of it I am convinced he was the sly but determined architect of my mother’s downfall.’

  Agnès felt a pain, like a knife striking her chest. She began to stir as though from a long sleep. Clément. Mathilde was attacking Clément. A sudden rush of energy caused the Dame de Souarcy to stand bolt upright. Never!

  ‘Ah! The undeniable proof!’ Florin boomed. ‘A trio of devil worshippers. I thank eternal Providence for having allowed us to discover them before they were able to poison innocent souls. The boy must be found, arrested and brought before us.’

  All of a sudden, the vicelike grip that had been choking Agnès dissolved. Her body forgot the weeks of imprisonment and starvation, the feverish nights. Mathilde, her daughter, her own flesh and blood, not content to manoeuvre her into the merciless clutches of the Inquisition, was throwing Clément into the jaws of those ruthless beasts. Never!

  She raised her head and stared coldly at her daughter. Pronouncing each syllable crisply, she retorted:

  ‘My daughter scarcely knows how to spell in French. She has such difficulty reading her prayers that I have been forced to make her learn them by heart. As for the letter she supposedly wrote, there is no doubt in my mind that it was dictated to her or that she copied it out. Since she does not understand a word of Latin, not even dog Latin, how could she be fit to judge the strangeness of any language, whether profane or sacred?’

  Florin tried desperately to counter-attack, but could only hiss:

  ‘A feeble defence, Madame!’

  ‘It’s a foul lie!’ Mathilde screeched.

  A slow, deep voice boomed through the room. The others all turned to face Brother Jean, who had risen to his feet and was speaking for the second time during the hearing:

  ‘Te deprecamur supplices nostris ut addas sensibus nescire prorsus omnia corruptionis vulnenera. How would you render this, Mademoiselle?’

  Mathilde decided that this was the moment to burst into tears. She stammered:

  ‘I am … exhausted. I can’t go on …’

  ‘What has become of your recently renewed vigour? How would you render this very simple phrase, Mademoiselle? Did you at least recognise it as Latin and not a profane language?’

  A silence descended. Florin searched desperately for an argument, cursing himself for getting carried away by his predilection for games. Incapable of remaining annoyed with himself for very long, he quickly turned his rage on Mathilde. What a fool, what an idiot to have mentioned Latin when she couldn’t understand a word of it!

  ‘Madame,’ said Brother Jean, turning to Agnès, ‘how would you render this sentence?’

  ‘We beg of You humbly to endow us with the unwavering ability to shun all that might corrupt the holy purity.’

  ‘Notary, in accordance with the precautions laid down by the inquisitorial procedure, which state that if any part of an accusation is shown to be false the entire accusation must be called into question, I challenge that of Mademoiselle Mathilde Clémence Marie de Souarcy. I have no doubt that our judicious Grand Inquisitor will endorse this precaution.’

  Brother Jean waited. Florin clenched his jaw in anger. Finally he spoke:

  ‘Indeed. The accusation of this young woman is called into question.’ He struggled with the urge to hurl himself at Mathilde and beat her, adding: ‘Scribe, make a record of the fact that this tribunal has expressed grave doubts regarding Mademoiselle de Souarcy’s sincerity and is concerned that she may have already perjured herself. Write down also that the same tribunal reserves the right to bring charges against her at a later date.’

  Mathilde cried out:

  ‘No …!’

  She took a few paces towards the inquisitor, her hands outstretched, and stumbled. Agnan rushed to grab her and led her outside to where Eudes was, rashly, savouring his imminent victory.

  Brother Jean tried to catch Agnès’s eye, but she was far away. She had plunged into a world of unimaginable pain. She had lost Mathilde and doubted she would ever find her again.

  She clung to her last source of hope, of strength: Clément was out of harm’s way, for now.

  ‘The fool!’ Eudes bawled. ‘The unbelievable fool! Why didn’t he warn me that he intended to put you face to face with Agnès? I would have dissuaded him … You are no match for her.’

  Jostled by the movement of the wagon rolling down the road alongside Perseigne Forest, which led to the eponymous abbey, Mathilde had not stopped crying and snuffling into her deceased aunt’s lace handkerchief, embroidered with the letter A in pretty sea-green thread. Her uncle’s last remark cut her to the quick and she stared up at him, her face puffy from weeping. How pink and unsightly she looked, he thought, just like a piglet – a shapely piglet, perhaps, but a piglet all the same.

  ‘What was that you said, Uncle? Am I no match for my mother?’

  This was not the moment to upset the little woman. After all, until Agnès had been found guilty he remained her provisional guardian.

  ‘What I mean, my dear girl,’ he corrected himself, patting her hand, ‘is that you are still young and relatively ignorant of the shrewd tactics used by certain people. It is a great credit to you that you still have scruples.’

  ‘How true, Uncle,’ agreed Mathilde obsequiously.

  ‘Your mother … well, we both know her well … She is cunning and manipulative … In short, I admire you for having stood up to her. What an ordeal it must have been for a young girl such as you.’

  Mathilde was slowly beginning to feel better. Once again she was cast as her mother’s victim – a role she liked so much that she believed in it more and more.

  ‘Yes. But …’

  ‘I could have shown that clown of an inquisitor which questions would be favourable to us! But no, the fool was intent on playing his own little game,’ interrupted Eudes, still annoyed.

  ‘Something the inquisitor said worried me, Uncle. He threatened to charge me with perjury.’

  Had it not been for that depleted mine of his, which was ruining his financial as well as his political prospects, he would have happily left her to her fate.

  ‘What of it? Another two hundred pounds will see to it. Anything to please you, dear niece.’

  ‘Another?’

  Eudes attempted to extricate himself:

  ‘Yes. Two hundred pounds here, another two hundred pounds there, a hundred more for the abbey, and so on …’

  Mathilde realised in a flash that her mother’s trial had been arranged from the beginning, paid for by her uncle. The knowledge comforted her, made her feel secure. The power of money was so tremendous that she determined never to be without it again, at whatever cost.

  Clairets Abbey, Perche, November 1304

  Yolande de Fleury, the sister in charge of the granary, stood, pale-faced, holding her tiny frame as upright as possible, before the Abbess’s desk. Éleusie de Beaufort turned towards the windows. The fine layer of early-morning frost that covered the gardens had not yet melted. A mysterious silence appeared to have enveloped the abbey. The Abbess strained her ears: no laughter rang out behind the heavy door to her apartments, breaking off as an admonishing finger was raised to a pair of lips. Sweet Adélaïde had taken with her into her icy tomb the gaiety which these austere, unyielding walls had never managed to stifle. Éleusie had not seen fit to d
o so either, contrary to the recommendation of Berthe de Marchiennes, the cellarer nun, who would no doubt have preferred everybody to wear her own perennially miserable expression. Claire and Philippine had always been so cheerful, Clémence, too – at least before she married that wretched oaf, Robert de Larnay. Each stifled giggle or suppressed smile from her nuns reminded Éleusie of her sisters and their carefree childhood. It was without doubt Adélaïde’s cheerfulness, her daily wonderment, her ceaseless chatter even, that had made her one of Éleusie’s favourite daughters.

  The insistent gaze of the sister in charge of the granary brought her back to her study, back to the present.

  ‘I shall repeat the question, dear Yolande. What were you doing wandering around outside the herbarium at night?’

  ‘What a nasty tell tale,’ murmured the sister, her little round chin quivering.

  ‘Our apothecary was only doing her duty. It was imperative that I be informed of your nocturnal foray, which is all the more worrying in the light of … the present circumstances.’

  ‘Reverend Mother, you don’t imagine that I went there with the intention of stealing poison!’

  ‘I didn’t imagine that a poisoner would rob us of our dear

  Adélaïde either,’ the Abbess retorted sharply. ‘Answer me.’

  ‘I felt dizzy … and terribly restless … I needed to take the night air.’

  Éleusie heaved a deep sigh:

  ‘So you insist upon sticking to that unlikely tale. You are not making it any easier for me, Yolande, but worse still you are making it more difficult for yourself. You may go now, daughter. Return to your barns, but do not imagine that I’ve finished with you yet.’

  Yolande de Fleury left without further ado. A few moments later Annelette Beaupré walked into her study, accompanied by Jeanne d’Amblin. Despite Blanche de Blinot’s role as second in command at the abbey, Éleusie had not invited her to this meeting. Poor Blanche had scarcely uttered a word since discovering that someone had tried to poison her.