The Lady Agnes Mystery, Volume 1

by Andrea Japp

  Francesco de Leone recalled the clothes they were given when they joined the Hospitaller order. Besides bed and table linen they received two shirts, two pairs of leggings, two pairs of breeches, a bodice, a fur-trimmed jacket and two coats, one with a fur lining for winter, as well as a cape and a belted tunic coat. Only when the clothes or linen became threadbare did they take them to the administrator, who would duly replace them. In exchange they handed over their fortune to the order, and in Francesco’s case this had been a substantial one inherited from his mother. And yet he had no doubt that the bequest would have pleased the remarkable woman who had given birth to him. As for him, leaving behind his worldly goods had been such an immense relief that he had spent the whole night following this final rite of passage wide awake and in a state of bliss. Clearly the inquisitor did not share his fondness for self-denial.

  Claire. As he grew older so the memory of his mother seemed to grow clearer. Her elder sister, Éleusie de Beaufort, resembled her, though she was less pretty, less vivacious. Small things – a made-up poem, a beautiful flower, a child’s words, the unusual colour of a ribbon – would elicit his mother’s ready laugh. And yet that pale and lofty brow concealed such intelligence and wisdom, some of which Leone liked to believe he had inherited. Added to this was her intuition, which Leone had not been endowed with. He saw in this the price he had to pay for his physical strength and masculinity. She had ‘sensed’ the twisting currents sweeping along all their lives long before they became apparent. As a small boy Leone had been convinced that this mysterious gift came from the angels. Had she also sensed her own slaughter and that of her daughter at Saint-Jean-d’Acre? No. It was unthinkable, for if she had had such a premonition, she would have escaped in time with her child.

  There was so much he did not know about that beautiful, noble woman who had held him in her arms and called him ‘her brave knight of the white cross’ when he was only five or six years old. Had she already known that he would one day join the Hospitaller order? How was that possible? Had they not simply been loving words from a mother to her son?

  Lost in such sweet, painful memories, Leone realised just in time that he was stalking his prey too closely, and running the risk of the other man turning round and seeing him. Florin must not be able to recognise him later on. He slowed his pace.

  Did the inquisitor rent a bachelor’s apartment in this well-to-do, discreet part of town where he could transform himself at his leisure and perhaps even keep the company of ladies?

  He had lined his purse well with the blood of others.

  Nicolas Florin was hurrying now. He entered one of the neighbourhoods where the passers-by leave as dusk sets in and the peaceable atmosphere dissolves as another type of creature comes to life. The modest corbelled dwellings appeared in places to form arches above the alleyways. The front of each building was occupied by stalls or workshops. Leone began to notice women whose appearance betrayed their calling*, as required by the Church and civic authorities. Their gaudy, low-cut dresses and the absence of the type of jewellery and belts worn by burghers’ wives or noblewomen, which they were prohibited from wearing, marked them out as purveyors of the flesh. Leone deduced that there was a bordel nearby, as in the big cities.82 A strumpet, scarcely older than fourteen, approached Florin. He sized her up from head to toe as he would a horse. The knight flattened himself in a doorway and observed the transaction taking place a few yards away, hardly daring to imagine what the poor girl would be put through in exchange for a few paltry coins, for he was certain that Florin’s sexual preferences would also entail violence and torture. They finally moved away, disappearing into a hemp-and-linen draper’s stall that must have fronted a house of ill repute.

  A good half-hour passed before the inquisitor re-emerged alone, wearing a look of sly satisfaction, and Leone wondered whether the poor girl was still able to stand. The pimps who supplied the wine and candles never interfered with their customers’ antics, however abusive, so long as they got their money.

  Florin walked back the same way he had come, Leone following behind, only instead of turning into Rue des Petites-Poteries he went straight on until he reached Rue de l’Ange where he slipped through the doorway of a well-to-do town house. Leone waited a few moments before approaching. The ground and first floors were made of stone with a half-timbered second floor above. The newly tiled roof had no doubt replaced the original thatched one, suggesting that the owner was extremely wealthy. The little dormer windows were wooden and protected by oilcloth, and all the interior shutters were closed, apart from those on the first floor. The pipes draining dirty water from the kitchen onto the street were dried up, as were those funnelling human waste into sewers or pits. The handsome-looking dwelling seemed to have been recently abandoned.

  Florin must have rented a tiny room in Rue du Croc where he could transform himself into a rich burgher and then come to this smart house. But who did it belong to and why did nobody appear to be living there?

  It took Leone one hour and much lying to find out the answers to these questions from the various shop owners on Rue des Petites-Poteries and Rue de l’Ange. Monsieur Pierre Tubeuf, a rich draper, having been very opportunely found guilty of heresy and dealings with the devil, had had his property confiscated by the Inquisition. Terrified that any objection on their part might prompt the inquisitor to charge them with the same crimes, his wife and two children had fled the town. Leone had no doubt that this was what would have happened. Florin had awarded himself a magnificent house at the cheapest price.

  The knight left the neighbourhood. Now he knew where Agnès’s torturer lived.

  Artus d’Authon waited, the barely touched cup of buttered ale in front of him. What was the child doing? He should have reported back long ago. The Comte made a supreme effort to suppress his anger and above all his despair. Had the little beggar boy tricked him? And yet the prospect of another silver coin should have been incentive enough. Perhaps Florin had suspected that he was being trailed and the boy had given up. He felt a flicker of fear for the boy’s safety, but reassured himself. Those young street urchins were quick on their feet and catching one would be no easy task. He raged against himself. What could he do now? Florin would recognise him instantly if he took it into his head to follow him. He cursed his ineptitude as a man of honour. He was capable of provoking a duel, fighting and winning, yet scheming and subterfuge were foreign to him, and he felt powerless against a sly snake such as the inquisitor. His chief bailiff, Monge de Brineux, was too much like him to be of any use. The solution came to him in a flash. Clément! Florin had never seen the boy and Clément had already shown that he possessed both courage and intelligence. Moreover, he would do anything to save his beloved mistress. Artus felt a great sense of relief and celebrated by swigging back his beer. He would return to Alençon with Clément the day after tomorrow. Come evening, Florin would be back where he belonged – in hell. The Comte would invoke the judgement of God, and Agnès would be freed, her accuser having been struck down by the hand of God. He leapt up, almost overturning the table, and rushed out to the astonishment of the other customers.

  The knight Leone found Rue des Carreaux, which led to his meeting place at the Bobinoir83 Tavern, Rue de l’Étoupée. He was guided there by the crier84 whose job it was to announce the price of wine served at the tavern.

  Landlords were commonly named after their establishments and Monsieur Bobinoir, who was no exception, looked up as the knight walked in and wondered what a smith was doing coming into his tavern, which was a meeting place for haberdashers, a guild that was growing in wealth and status and whose members were now considered to be on a par socially with the burghers. Maître Bobinoir paused. His regular customers did not care to rub shoulders with a member of the lowly professions. Then again, as long as the man was not a tanner whose clothes were impregnated with the stench of rotting flesh, or even a common dyer, he did not feel obliged simply to ask him to leave. Besides, something about the man’
s appearance intrigued Monsieur Bobinoir – a sort of effortlessness, an ease devoid of arrogance. No doubt the other customers sitting at the tables that day felt it too, for after giving him a second glance they quickly returned to their conversations. The smith looked around the room for a place to sit then turned silently to the landlord, who motioned with his chin towards an isolated table.

  When Monsieur Bobinoir went over to take his order, he made a point of speaking in a loud voice so as to reassure his regular customers:

  ‘We keep good company here, smith, and Bobinoir is pleased to welcome you today. If tomorrow you still have a thirst, be a good fellow and slake it in the tavern serving people in your own trade.’

  The smith’s deep-blue eyes gazed up at him and Maître Bobinoir, gripped by a sudden anxiety, had to resist the urge to draw back in order to avoid being humiliated in front of his customers. And yet slowly the man’s face creased into a smile:

  ‘You are too kind, Monsieur Bobinoir, and I thank you. I accept your hospitality and will remember that it is an exception.’

  ‘There’s a good chap,’ the landlord boomed, pleased at having more or less stood his ground. ‘Will you take some wine?’

  ‘Yes, bring your finest. I am waiting for a friend … a Dominican friar. Like me he is not a haberdasher, but …’

  ‘A friar!’ interrupted Maître Bobinoir, then pronounced solemnly, ‘I am honoured to receive him in my establishment.’

  A few moments later, Jean de Rioux, the younger brother of Eustache de Rioux, who had been Leone’s godfather in the Hospitallers, walked into the tavern. Monsieur Bobinoir now began to fuss over the Dominican, whose arrival he saw as open confirmation that his establishment attracted the salt of the earth and was far from being a den of iniquity.

  As his old friend approached the table, the knight stood up to embrace this courageous, honourable soul who had not hesitated to lower himself to spying if it meant remaining true to his faith and that of his departed brother.

  ‘I am angry at fate, Jean, for my pleasure at seeing you after all these years is spoiled by the circumstances that drove me to request your help. But, most of all, I am eternally grateful to you for not hesitating to offer it, despite your duty of obedience to your order.’

  ‘Francesco, Francesco … What a joy to behold you, too! As for my help, it is only a mark of the friendship and respect I have always felt for you. Eustache thought of you as a son, and you are like a younger brother to me. No request of yours could be anything but pure, which is why upon receiving your brief missive I did not hesitate for a second to offer you my help, likewise Brother Anselme.’

  Jean fell silent as Maître Bobinoir approached and set down a cup of frothy beer in front of him. He nodded politely to the man and waited for him to leave before continuing in a hushed voice:

  ‘As for my duty of obedience to my order, it can never outweigh that which I owe to God. Do not think, dear Francesco, that just because we willingly submit to the rule we become sheep. Do not think that we cease to have minds of our own. Many of us, Dominicans and Franciscans alike, question the bloody path that the Inquisition has taken. What was once firm conviction has turned into ferocious zeal. Defending the faith is one thing, coercive violence another, and it makes a mockery of the Gospels.’

  ‘It was Benoît XI’s intention to rein in the Inquisition.’

  Jean de Rioux looked at him, incredulous. ‘And revoke Innocent IV’s papal bull Ad extirpanda?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘But the political risk would have been enormous.’

  ‘Benoît was aware of that.’

  ‘A rumour is spreading that he died a natural death from internal bleeding,’ Jean de Rioux added.

  ‘It was to be expected … And yet he was murdered, he died from eating poisoned figs,’ corrected the knight. ‘The defenders of the imperial Church are rid of an embarrassing reformer and Christianity is deprived of one of its purest souls.’

  They sipped their drinks in silence, then the Dominican spoke again in an almost inaudible voice:

  ‘What you tell me, brother, increases the unease I feel and yet am unable to define. Something is being prepared, something whose true nature is still unclear but which goes far beyond fraudulent trials in exchange for money. Florin feels invulnerable, and that cannot be explained merely by the fee he will receive from that oafish baron.’

  ‘You and I have reached the same conclusion. Only I believe I am able to put a name and a face to this menacing shadow.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The camerlingo Honorius Benedetti.’

  ‘Surely you are not suggesting that he is behind the sudden death of our beloved late lamented Benoît XI?’

  ‘I am almost sure of it, although I have no way of proving it and doubtless never will.’

  They parted company an hour later at the top of the tavern steps. Jean had told Leone in detail about the cross-examination of Agnès de Souarcy that he had attended. He was in no doubt as to the trumped-up nature of the absurd charges and of the trial itself. Jean had made special mention of the shameful role played by Agnès’s daughter.

  They had to act quickly. The preliminary questioning would not go on for much longer, especially now that Florin’s key witness, the malicious but foolish Mathilde de Souarcy, had made such a bad impression upon the judges.

  They shook hands upon parting and Jean held on to Leone’s. The knight hesitated for a second before asking:

  ‘Jean, my friend, do you believe as Eustache did, and as I do now, that no act in defence of the Light can be considered profane?’

  ‘It is my firm conviction, and it would hurt me if you were to doubt it,’ the Dominican murmured solemnly.

  Leone handed him a small package wrapped in a piece of cloth, and advised:

  ‘Do not open it here, brother. It contains your preferential treatment and no doubt Agnès de Souarcy’s salvation. There is a note with it. If you feel that … Well, the content of the note may endanger your life and I would never forgive myself if …’

  A faint smile lit up the furrowed face that reminded Leone of his Hospitaller godfather.

  ‘You know as well as I do, Francesco, that danger is a fickle mistress. She rarely appears where we think she will – hence her allure. Give me the package.’

  Vatican Palace, Rome, November 1304

  It was strange … He who suffered so much from the heat had begun to feel chilled to the bone after Benoît’s death.

  It was as though the sweet reminiscences that had up until then moved and comforted Honorius Benedetti, the deceased Benoît XI’s camerlingo, during his darkest hours had been sucked into a bottomless pit. Where was the memory of the exquisite lady’s fan he had put away in a drawer, and the swim in the icy river from which he and his brother had emerged pink with cold and delight, only to discover that their feet were bleeding? Honorius, who had been five at the time, had screamed out that they were going to die. Bernardo had quickly rallied, taking his younger brother in his arms and explaining that the crayfish had cut them, but that they would get their own back by having them for lunch. They had gorged themselves on the grilled creatures before falling asleep. Their mother … The intoxicating smell of her hair rinsed in honey and lavender water, which made them want to breathe it in, put it in their mouths and swallow it. What had become of these comforting memories?

  Exaudi, Deus, orationem meam cum deprecor, a timore inimici eripe animam meam.85

  It was Benoît. Benoît had taken them with him when he died. If only Honorius could resent him for it then his beautiful memories would come flooding back. But he could not. Benoît and his angelic obstinacy. Benoît and his gentle determination.

  A wave of sadness filled his eyes with tears. Sweet Benoît.

  I loved you dearly, brother. The eight months I spent in your company were my only solace in this palace full of loathsome, sickening fools. Why did you force me to kill such purity, Benoît? I didn’t care about the others, me
re insects borne by the wind. When I held you in my arms, when you spewed your blood, I knew that this cold would haunt me for ever.

  Benoît, did you not see that I was right, that I was fighting for us both? Why should we welcome revolution, we who cherish continuity? Why should we give up everything in the name of a supposed truth, a truth so vague that it can only seduce madmen? I defend the established order, without which men would once more be plunged into the chaos we have saved them from. Surely you did not believe that they loved Truth? That they prayed for Justice? They are weak, dangerous fools.

  Oh, Benoît … Why did you have to resist me, to oppose me unwittingly. If only we had seen eye to eye, I would have laboured tirelessly to seat you on the throne of God, as I did Boniface* – whom I did not even like. I would have been the indefatigable means for you to reign over our world. God illuminated you with His smile, but He gave me the strength to continue fighting. Why did you have to persist in your dream?

  I cried for nights on end before giving him the order to slay you. I prayed for nights on end. I prayed that the scales would finally fall from your eyes. But you were blinded by the light. Your death throes were the longest hours of my life. Your suffering wounded me so deeply that I vow to obliterate from my vocabulary for ever the words ‘torment, affliction, ordeal’.