The Lady Agnes Mystery, Volume 1 (30 page)

After she had recovered from her fright and stopped crying, Adélaïde Condeau made what she considered an important decision: she would do without the sage and therefore avoid any further confrontation with that shrew Annelette. How unpleasant she was when she set her mind to it, that overgrown creature! Adélaïde immediately reproached herself for having such uncharitable thoughts. She screwed up her face as she finished the cup of lavender and cinnamon tea sweetened with honey that Blanche de Blinot, the senior nun, had kindly brought her. She had put too much honey in and it tasted sickly, especially taken cold. Her face broke into a smile: Blanche was very old, and it was well known that old people developed a taste for the only sweetness they had left in life.

Rosemary was a perfect herb, and went well with game. Moreover, she had enough of it stored in the kitchens to make another visit to the herbarium unnecessary. Three novices had spent the morning gutting and quartering the hares that now lay in a macabre heap on one of the trestle tables. This was Adélaïde’s favourite time of day; vespers
⁺
was about to begin and the novices, who, like her, were excused from attending the service
in order to prepare supper, were busy laying the table in the great hall under the watchful eye of the refectory nun. A moment of calm descended upon the enormous vaulted kitchen, broken only by the roar of the fire in the great hearth, the occasional patter of a sister’s feet hurrying to the scriptorium, the crackle of the stove or the gurgle of pipes.

Adélaïde had been daunted at first by her promotion to head of kitchens and meals; it seemed to be more about accounts and inventories than pots and pans. Sensing her hesitation, the Abbess and Berthe de Marchiennes – the cellarer nun to whom she reported directly – hastened to assure her that her primary duty would continue to be that of providing them with food. For Adélaïde loved to chop, mix, prepare, purée, simmer, braise, thicken and season. She loved preparing food for people, nourishing them. No earthly pleasure could compare in her eyes with trying to invent new recipes for soup or crystallised fruit, as she frequently did. Perhaps the root cause was her precarious start in life; she had been close to starvation when a cooper discovered her at the edge of Condeau Forest.

The long wooden spoon she was holding made a hollow sound as it slipped from her hand and bounced off the tiled floor. The bread. The rye bread she had secretly given the Pope’s emissary to nourish him on his journey. She had not ordered any that week from Sylvine Taulier, the sister in charge of the bread oven. So where had the little loaf come from? A sudden giddy spell nearly caused her to lose her balance and she clutched the edge of the table just in time. What was happening to her? She felt as though thousands of pins and needles were pricking her hands and feet, jabbing at her face and mouth. She tried to make a fist with her hand, but her limbs felt numb. Her stomach was on fire and a
cold sweat poured from her brow, drenching the collar of her robe. She was finding it difficult to breathe. Still holding on to the edge of the trestle table, she attempted to move towards the door, towards the others. She wanted to cry for help but no sound came out of her mouth.

She felt herself slump to the floor and she put her hand on her chest. She couldn’t feel her heart. Was it even beating? She opened her mouth and tried to breathe, but the air refused to flow into her lungs.

Why had she been saved by that man, only to be poisoned a few years later? What sense was there in that?

A last prayer. May death take her quickly. Her prayer would not be granted.

For more than half an hour Adélaïde veered between pain and incomprehension. Fully conscious, the sweat running down her face, she could make out the other sisters flooding into the cavernous kitchen, frightened, shouting, weeping. She saw Hedwige du Thilay cross herself and close her eyes as she held her crucifix up to her lips. She recognised Jeanne d’Amblin’s distraught face, and saw her press her hand to her mouth to stifle a cry. She saw Annelette leaning over her to sniff her mouth and smell her breath. She felt Éleusie’s soft lips brushing her forehead and her tears dropping onto her hand. Annelette lifted a finger moist with saliva to her mouth and tasted it.

The tall woman rose to her feet, and for the first time the young girl in charge of the kitchens thought that underneath her sister’s gruff exterior was an inner warmth. She heard her murmur:

‘My poor child.’

The apothecary took the Abbess aside and Adélaïde could no longer hear what they were saying:

‘Reverend Mother, our sister has been poisoned with aconite.
She is suffocating to death. Unfortunately, she will remain conscious throughout. There is nothing we can do except to gather round and pray for her.’

Adélaïde Condeau struggled in vain against the creeping paralysis that was slowly immobilising her whole body, up to her cheeks, trapping her voice in her throat. She tried with all her might to utter a single word: bread.

As the nuns knelt around her and she was given absolution, the single, precious syllable echoed in her head: bread.

When she could no longer draw breath, when she opened her mouth wide to suck in the air that was denied to her, she imagined that she had finally managed to utter the word.

Her head flopped to one side, cradled in Éleusie’s arms.

D
ressed in a sumptuous sapphire-blue robe adorned with a fur trim and embroidery as fine as that of any princess, Mathilde de Souarcy strutted up and down in front of the ladies and gentlemen of her imaginary court, alternately curtseying and putting on a coquettish air.

As she now considered herself a grown woman, she had instructed her servant to braid her hair into coils around her head.

She clucked with delight. How boring it had been stuck inside that bleak abbey where her mother had thought fit to send her after the Grand Inquisitor from Alençon had come to inform her that the time of grace had begun. How tedious to have to get up so early and go to church, and be forced to help make beds and fold linen for love of thy neighbour! And yet, there were plenty of lay servants to relieve well-born girls like her of those duties. During what she considered a scandalous imprisonment, which had lasted less than a week, Mathilde's biggest fear had been that she might end her days amid the dreary, bustling activity of Clairets. However, she had not counted on the devotion of her dashing uncle Eudes. God only knows how relieved she had felt when she learned of his arrival at the abbey. He had immediately demanded that the Abbess hand over his niece, and Éleusie de Beaufort had been unable to resist the order for very long. Eudes was Mathilde's uncle by blood and in the absence of her mother became her official guardian. Indeed, owing to her uncle's generosity she had lived like a princess for the past few weeks. The bed chamber he had provided for her had been that of the late Madame Apolline. It was spacious and well heated thanks to
the large hearth, which was the height of modernity, possessing as it did two small shutters, one on either side, allowing the heat to circulate more efficiently. On the bare stone walls, brightly coloured hangings depicting ladies taking their bath kept out the damp. She slept every night in the vast bed, and felt a little uneasy when she tried to imagine the activity that must have taken place there – for she could only assume that it was here Madame Apolline had received her husband. What had gone on between those sheets? She had attempted to find out by occasionally probing Adeline or Mabile. The two fools had burst into fits of giggles and told her nothing. A mirror stood on a dainty jewellery dresser with sculpted legs. Her miserable rags had been stored in two large chests flanking the hearth until, one day, her uncle had angrily demanded that they be burnt and his niece dressed in keeping with someone of her status. True, some of the finery he had given her had belonged to her late aunt Apolline. But she did not resent her uncle for having the dresses altered to fit her. What a deplorable waste it would have been to throw them away, especially since poor Apolline, who was naturally ungainly, had done them little justice. Multiple pregnancies had only increased her agonising clumsiness. She had always given the impression of being trussed up in her robes and veils, and would stand like a peasant woman with her hands supporting her back, weakened by so many swollen bellies. In contrast, when worn by Mathilde, the linen and silk fabrics floated like delightful clouds.

An unpleasant thought blighted her good mood. Her mother was now in the hands of the Inquisition, and although Mathilde was unaware of the precise nature of the task of these friars, she knew them to be unforgiving and that anyone unfortunate enough to enter their headquarters was unlikely ever to emerge again. However, they were men of God and the Pope's emissaries.
If her mother had incurred their wrath, then it must be seen as punishment for a grave sin she had committed. Indeed, now she came to think of it, Mathilde was indulging her mother by not resenting her even more than she already did, for if Agnès de Souarcy was found guilty, the scandal threatened to taint her by association and thus jeopardise her future.

At least she was free of that good-for-nothing Clément. Mathilde had often felt sickened by her mother's weakness for that common farm hand, son of a lady's maid. How arrogant he had been towards her, though she was the sole heir to the family name! And he was mistaken if he thought she hadn't noticed the expression of pained sympathy on his face when she spoke to him sometimes. The fool! Now she was enjoying her sweet revenge! He had fled the manor like a thief, proving in Mathilde's view that his conscience was not clear. She had gleaned from Adeline that, besides the draught horse his mistress had supplied him with, he had taken only some food and a blanket. He must have left his crossbow, for serfs were not permitted to carry weapons. Yet another of her mother's stupid ideas! A gleeful thought crossed the young girl's mind. The forest was an unsafe place full of two-and four-legged predators. What if the ugly brat had been ripped to shreds?

This happy thought was interrupted by the cautious entrance of the servant Barbe, provided for her by her uncle.

‘Well, what do you want?' Mathilde snapped.

‘Seigneur Eudes requests the honour of being permitted to visit you in your chamber, Mademoiselle.'

Mathilde's face lit up at the mention of her beloved uncle.

‘The honour is mine. Well, don't stand there – go and tell him!'

No sooner had the girl left the room than Mathilde rushed over to the mirror to check her hair and the fall of her dress.

Eudes chuckled as she lifted her arms and twirled around to let him see how his gift showed off her pretty figure to advantage.

‘You are a vision of loveliness, dear niece, and your presence here brightens up my household,' he declared, forcing a note of concern into his voice.

The young girl was flattered by the compliment and fell straight into the crude trap he had laid for her.

‘And yet you seem so serious, uncle.'

Eudes was delighted to have so easily got her right where he wanted her.

‘It concerns your mother, my little princess, whom, as you know, I love as a sister. You see, her impending trial will have unfortunate repercussions for us all. If, as I fear, Madame Agnès is found guilty of heresy, it will bring shame upon us both. I know you are a clever child. You will therefore understand that a verdict such as this would not favour our dealings with the King of France – not to mention the disgrace that would tarnish the family name for ever. My life is done, but yours is only just beginning, and it would be a terrible injustice if …' He ended with a sigh of despair.

Mathilde lowered her head in dismay. So, her uncle was confirming her own fears of the past few weeks. On the verge of tears, she murmured:

‘How unfair it would be indeed for us to be associated with my mother's sins. Is there nothing we can do, uncle …?'

‘I have mulled over the alternatives during the last few nights when I was unable to sleep. It seems to me there is only one sure way … but it pains me to tell you what it is.'

‘Pray do, dearest uncle, I entreat you. The situation is serious.'

‘It is … Oh, the suffering I am about to cause you, you whose happiness is closest to my heart …'

Mathilde did not doubt his words. Far away from Manoir de Souarcy's cold, gloomy interior, she was at last living the life she had always longed for: fine clothes, a servant to do her hair each morning, twice-weekly baths in milk and water scented with rosemary and violets, greeted like a young lady wherever she went. No! She had been deprived of it for long enough by her mother's stubbornness and she refused to allow what was rightfully hers to be taken away from her! Moreover, she had an equal duty to protect her uncle, her benefactor.

‘I implore you … Nothing could be more terrible in my eyes than to see you publicly disgraced as a result of my mother's mistakes – especially after you have been so good to her – too good.'

Magnificent! The pretty little fool had fallen straight into his lap!

‘You are so good, my radiant princess. What a comfort you are to me in my hour of torment. This painful solution would seem, then, to be the only one left to us. An accusation.'

Mathilde showed no surprise, for she had already thought of it herself. Had not Pope Honorius III advised in one of his encyclicals: ‘Let each draw his sword and spare neither his fellow man nor even his closest relative'? She saw nothing wrong in obeying the orders of God's representative on earth.

‘As you know, niece, in the eyes of the Inquisition, failure to denounce a heretic is tantamount to complicity … It pains me to torment your sweet soul with such a decision.'

‘No, uncle. If my mother had not foolishly given refuge to that … that traitor Sybille, who was pregnant to boot, then you and I would not be in this situation. And after all … perhaps that devilish fiend, that succubus, did sow the seeds of heresy in my mother's soul, condemning her to eternal damnation, which is far more terrible than any trial. I shudder at the thought.'