The Lady Agnes Mystery, Volume 1 (27 page)

‘Madame de Souarcy has arrived at the Inquisition headquarters at Alençon where she is being held in
murus strictus
.'

Clément leaned against a bookshelf, trying to catch his breath. His whole body seemed to tremble. A firm hand grasped his tunic just as he felt his legs give way under him. The next thing he knew he was sitting in one of the small armchairs dotted around the circular room.

‘Forgive me, my lord,' he stammered as he regained consciousness.

‘No. It is I who should apologise. I fear that keeping the company of men and farmers has left me wanting in manners and consideration. Stay seated,' he insisted as Clément tried to stand up. ‘You are still young, my boy … And yet you must be aware that some people are obliged to leave behind childish things sooner than others. I must ask you as a matter of urgency to search your memory. You told me how that rascal Eudes de Larnay and his loyal servant plotted to have Agnès arrested by
the Inquisition. It would appear that she unwittingly gave refuge to a heretic, a certain …'

‘Sybille.'

‘Yes.'

Clément bit his lip before blurting out:

‘She was my mother.'

The Comte looked at him and murmured:

‘Now I understand why Madame Agnès was so keen to send you away from her entourage.'

A curious tenderness welled up in Artus, who for days had been gripped by fear. He had known men, soldiers, who would willingly have denounced a child to the Inquisition in order to spare themselves the threat of a trial. And yet she, a helpless woman, or so she thought, had stood up to them. She must know of the conflict that raged in the minds of certain friars. Torn between their carnal desire and their vow of chastity, they feared or loathed women and their seductive powers, and absolved themselves of the temptation they felt in their presence by holding the devil responsible. However, having met Florin, Artus did not believe he was the sort to be troubled too much by self-denial. Yet, indeed, this loathing of women, this need to exercise a destructive power over them, was itself a form of carnal desire.

The Comte felt sickened and angry by turns. Ever since he had first seen Agnès dressed in peasant's breeches calming the bees as she harvested honey, he had dreamed in the early mornings of that long pale neck, of breathing its scent, of brushing its flesh with his still-slumbering lips. He dreamed of her long, fine hands holding the reins gently but firmly, like a true rider. He dreamed of them holding his belly and his loins. The image had become so vivid, so inappropriate, that he would banish it from
his thoughts, knowing that it would creep back the moment he lowered his guard.

‘In the letter you brought with you, Madame de Souarcy suggested a hidden influence far greater than that of her scheming half-brother.'

‘Indeed, my lord. We came to that conclusion. Eudes de Larnay could pay the inquisitor but not guarantee him any influential backing. His power extends no further than his tiny estate and is far less than your own. It stands to reason that someone intervened to reinforce Florin's position.'

Artus walked over to one of the windows with their tiny asymmetrical leaded panes, unusual for the time. Hands clasped behind his back, he stood gazing out at the gardens ablaze with the russet browns and ochres of autumn. In the distance, a pair of swans floated on the pond, so perfectly elegant in their watery element and yet so ungainly on land. One day he would walk there with her, holding her arm. He would introduce her to the capricious swans, the proud peacocks and the albino deer who would peer at them shyly with their big brown eyes as they approached. One day he would recite to her: ‘I love to walk among this fragrance and behold the marvel of these flowers,'
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and she would reply, imbuing the words of Monsieur Chrétien de Troyes* with all the strength of her feeling: ‘I was testing your love. Be sad no more, for I love you even more as I know you love me from the very depths of your heart.'
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One day. Soon.

Defeat Florin. Kill him if necessary.

He found himself speaking to the child as though he were a man of his own age:

‘And yet Florin must be aware of my childhood association and friendship with the King of France. His impudence, his … immunity must come from Rome. Remember, though, that the
Pope is dead and we do not know who his successor will be. It comes as no surprise, then, that it is not a pontiff, but somebody who wields great influence in the Vatican. The late Benoît* was a merciful man, a reformer. He might have advocated compassion and clemency in our case. They gave him no time. His reign lasted but eight months … I am convinced that its brevity was intentional. And … I sense that his enemies are also ours.'

‘But who?' Clément asked.

‘We will find out, my boy, I promise you. Go now.'

T
emplar commandery at Arville was situated in the middle of what had once been the land of the Carnutes on the pilgrim’s way to Santiago de Compostela, and was one of the first of its kind to be established, thanks to the generous donation of almost two and a half acres of woodland by Geoffroy III, a noble from Mondoubleau. A small band of knights, together with a few equerries and lay brethren
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– mostly shepherds and herdsmen – had settled there from 1130 onwards.

The commandery served a triple purpose: as a farm estate that provided meat, grain, wood and horses for the crusaders in the Holy Land; as a recruitment centre and training camp for the Templars waiting to leave for the crusades; and finally it re-established the religious life that had vanished from the once-thriving Gallic community formed by the three towns of Arville, Saint-Agil and Oigny after it had been razed by the invading Romans.

Further donations by the Vicomtes de Châteaudun, the Comtes de Chartres, de Blois, and even the Comtes de Nevers, of woodland and arable land, as well as the right to harvest timber, bake their own bread and trade, had transformed the commandery into one of the richest in the kingdom of France. Notwithstanding past generosity, the lords of Mondoubleau – the Vicomtes de Châteaudun – had begun to resent the Templars’ increasing wealth, and in 1205 their growing concern threatened to undermine the order’s state of grace. The dispute worsened to the extent that in 1216 Pope Honorius III excommunicated Comte Geoffroy IV, who was intending to prohibit the Templars
at Arville from driving their convoys outside the Mondoubleau estate, from owning a bread oven, from selling their merchandise at the marketplace and from harvesting bracken for animal fodder. Geoffroy IV had finally yielded to papal authority, but not before leading a small uprising.

The knights’ activities had soon attracted an extended population as, in exchange for a nominal rent and a few services, they offered bread and dwellings with a smallholding.
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In the year of 1304 seven hundred souls lived outside the commandery’s stout ramparts.

The sun was high up in the sky when Francesco de Leone emerged from Mondoubleau Forest, which was adjacent to Montmirail Forest. The old mare he had hired at Ferté-Bernard moved along at a sluggish pace. The poor animal had already walked so far carrying his weight that he hadn’t the heart to goad it on to arrive more quickly. His growing stomach pangs were a reminder that he hadn’t eaten since the previous morning when he had finished the bag of provisions his aunt, Éleusie de Beaufort, had handed him just before he slipped away unseen from Clairets Abbey. Leone would never have allowed himself to describe what he felt as ‘hunger’, out of respect for the ravages of true hunger. He knew he would be offered food upon reaching his destination. This was the one Christian act no monk-soldier could disregard, despite the difficult, not to say hostile, relations between the Knights Hospitaller and Templar.*

Of course Leone could not ask the Templars to help him in the quest that had driven him for so long, a quest brought to him from the underground tunnels at Acre moments before the bloody defeat that heralded the end of Christendom in the Orient. Before joining the slaughter raging above their heads,
a Knight Templar, sensing his imminent demise, had entrusted Leone’s godfather, Eustache de Rioux, with a journal containing a lifetime of research, questions and unsolvable mysteries. He had spoken of a papyrus scroll written in Aramaic – one of the most sacred texts in all civilisation – and indicated that it was safely hidden at one of the Templar commanderies.

Under no circumstances must the commander at Arville suspect Leone’s true motives. As for any hospitality he might receive, Leone was certain that it would be minimal and circumspect. Before his journey had even begun, Leone predicted that it would end in failure. Vain hope was not enough to explain his determination to carry on regardless. He wanted to breathe in the atmosphere of the place, and was convinced that once inside the church he would feel the presence of the secret, the key, that was hidden there – perhaps the papyrus.

He walked up the pebble path leading to the towering ramparts encircling the various buildings. The drawbridge was down over the surrounding moat, fed by the nearby river Coëtron. To the left stood the stables – reportedly large enough to house fifty or more horses, destined to be transported to the Holy Land on special vessels, which they would board via a drop-down door in the transom. Beyond the stables lay the kitchen and physic garden that supplied the Templar community with a few of its vegetables and most of its medicaments. To the right of the gateway, squeezed between the church and the utilitarian buildings, a smallish dwelling with tiny arrow-slit windows was most likely the preceptor’s
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abode. A little further on stood the church’s circular watchtower, built of dark chalk-stone – a mixture of flint, quartz, clay and iron ore. This Temple of Our Lady, whose name invoked the Templars’ cult of the Virgin, had been set apart from the ramparts, allowing the villagers to attend
services without entering the commandery, thus respecting the Templar monks’ cloister. In turn, another, smaller door permitted the monks to enter without ever leaving the enclosure. The two-tiered bell tower was supported by a pointed arch with its three rounded arches symbolising the Trinity. At the centre of the enclosure was the tithe barn, where a tenth of all the local harvests collected as taxes were stored. Behind the barn another stout watchtower stood guard over this amassed wealth. Close by, the bread oven – the focus of so much acrimony – defied the Vicomtes de Châteaudun with its presence.

Leone approached what he took to be the commander’s dwelling.

His black surcoat with its eight-pronged white Maltese cross did not go unnoticed. A young equerry glanced up at him and the colour drained from his face. He looked around frantically as though searching for help from some quarter, and Leone half expected him to flee. He smiled sadly: how often they had fought side by side, come to one another’s aid, laid down their lives for each other without a thought for which colour cross the other wore. Templars and Hospitallers had died together by the thousands, their mingled blood seeping into the soil of foreign lands. Why in times of peace did they forget their brotherhood during those bloody conflicts?

He called out to the young boy:

‘Pray, take me to your commander, Archambaud d’Arville.’

‘My lord …?’ the young man stammered.

Sensitive to the boy’s discomfort, Leone added:

‘Tell him that Francesco de Leone, Knight of Grace and Justice of the Order of Saint John of Jerusalem, is here. Hurry. My mount and I are both weary.’

The equerry ran off and Francesco dismounted. Nearly half an
hour passed, during which time Leone began to doubt whether the preceptor would in fact receive him. Of course he must. To send him away would be a very unwise move on his part in view of the delicacy of the current political situation.

The man who walked through the gateway had an imposing physique, emphasised by a white mantle adorned with a red cross with four arms of equal length, and a long tunic reaching down to the floor. A sword hanging from a wide leather belt swung against his calf. It was difficult to guess the age of the furrowed face, framed by a thick mane of hair and a grizzled beard; forty, forty-five, older perhaps. The commander smiled politely and Leone thought he saw the man’s eyes light up as he made his introductions. Indeed, he enquired:

‘Are you the Francesco de Leone who was expected to become one of the pillars of the Italian-speaking world in your order?’

Leone was not overly surprised by a commander knowing of the Hospitallers’ internal affairs; both military orders contrived as discreetly as possible to find out what they could about the other. But that he should acknowledge it so openly was perplexing.

‘It was an honour and a responsibility of which I considered myself unworthy at the time, and which I consequently declined.’

‘Proving that, in addition to your reputation for piety and bravery, you are a wise man. To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit, brother?’

Leone had decided to offer a simple excuse in order not to arouse any suspicion. Since he was unable to request a bed for the night at a Templar commandery he had no other choice but to content himself with a brief visit.

‘To the need for prayer, a halt for my weary horse and a rumbling stomach, I confess. I am on my way to Céton and do not expect to be there before nightfall,’ he lied.

Leone had no way of telling whether Archambaud d’Arville believed him. Nevertheless, he replied:

‘You are a welcome guest. One of our people will attend to your mount. As for you and I, we shall begin by sharing a meal.’

‘I must leave soon after none
⁺
if I am to find lodgings at Céton. I shall visit the abbey there tomorrow morning.’

‘Your visit will be a brief one, then, I fear,’ announced the other man in a voice that sounded too cheerful to be true. ‘But please follow me – I am failing in all my duties.’

Leone walked with him towards the building to the right of the main gateway. So it was the preceptor’s dwelling.

Two equerries were seated at the table in the main hall. They bent over their bowls of soup and busily finished the remainder of their meal, clearly keen to leave the room at the first opportunity.

The Templars’ table, though far from lavish, was reputedly less frugal than that of the Hospitallers. For the Templars, unlike the Hospitallers, had always been a military order, and since soldiers must be well nourished if they are to fight like lions, the practice of fasting among its members had always been restricted.

A lay brother soon arrived and placed a goblet of hippocras in front of Leone and a thick slice of poor men’s bread
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made of wheat, rye and coarsely sifted barley in front of Archambaud d’Arville. After tracing a cross on the piece of brown bread with the tip of his knife, the commander sliced it in two and gave half to the Knight Hospitaller. They both thanked God for this blessing.

The lay brother then served a slice of spinach-and-bacon pie on each of these trenchers, followed by ox tongue roasted in verjuice.

The faint feeling of bewilderment the knight had been experiencing since he arrived was gradually turning into one of
unease. There was something unnatural about the lack of interest Arville showed in his reasons for being there and in his journey in general. Under normal circumstances he would have attempted to glean as much information as possible, knowing that Leone was a prominent figure in the Hospitaller hierarchy.

Their meal took place in awkward silence, punctuated by an occasional comment on the dishes they were eating, or on that year’s harvest or the unlikelihood of there being a new crusade.

Arville agreed with Leone’s reservations regarding the matter, adding:

‘We cannot feed more than fifty animals and are obliged to sell our horses at the market.’

Leone found this idle chitchat disturbing. Something else lurked behind the smug façade of civility. And yet it was unthinkable that the commander knew anything about the reason for his visit, still less about his quest. Had the other man sensed his unease? Whatever the case, his manner changed abruptly to one of forced joviality, adding to Leone’s suspicions about his host of a few hours. Archambaud d’Arville began to describe in great detail his own calamitous arrival at Perche-Gouet four years before: his departure from Italy – a country dear to his heart – the neglectful state in which he had found the commandery when he arrived. Indeed, he had been obliged to mete out cautions and minor punishments, alternating bread-and-water penances with two-day fasts – the worst offenders being made to eat their meals on the floor. In this way, the commander explained, he managed to call to order certain monks guilty of committing venial but routine sins. He guffawed as he recalled one greedy Templar sergeant who would sneak out at night and raid the honey, plunging his hands into the barrels. They had discovered him asleep one morning after gorging himself, his body covered in
ants. It had taken four days for the swellings from the bites to go down. Another, whose fondness was for the demon drink, would be so inebriated before the first service of the day he had to prop himself up against a pillar in the Temple of Our Lady, and hiccupped after each word as he intoned, ‘
Salve, Regina, Mater misericordiae; vita, dulcedo et spes nostra.
’
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Then there were those who had a tendency to ignore their duties, preferring instead to play court tennis in the spacious loft above the stables that had been converted into an area devoted to leisure. Leone smiled politely as he tried to glimpse the reason behind the preceptor’s garrulousness. Something was not right; despite the cool weather the other man was perspiring and had already poured himself a third cup of hippocras.

It was getting late. Leone stopped speculating and politely interrupted Archambaud d’Arville’s futile but relentless anecdotes:

‘Despite the pleasure it gives me to remain in your company, brother, I must soon take my leave. I have a long journey ahead of me and would like to pray before setting off again.’

‘By all means, by all means …’

And yet, Archambaud’s displeasure was palpable. Was Leone nearing his goal or merely being misled by false impressions?

He thought he saw a sudden look of real grief darken the commander’s forced cheer as he proposed:

‘I cannot allow you to leave without tasting our cider. It is legendary throughout the region.’

Leone accepted with good grace.

Shortly afterwards, they left the tiny building for the temple. They entered through the pointed archway, reinforced by four salient buttresses. The church had been inspired by the austerity of Cistercian buildings and consisted of a nave made up of four
spans, ending in a semicircular apse. Light flooded in through the high round-arched windows. There was only an altar, no benches even. And yet as Leone walked between its pillars he knew that he had arrived. He felt a strange and wonderful light-headedness, and let out a sigh of relief. The commander apparently misconstrued the gesture and held on to his arm to steady him.