The Lady Agnes Mystery, Volume 1 (33 page)

‘Is that all, Madame?' Anselme insisted again, turning quickly to look at Friar Jean. ‘Think hard. It is not the aim of this court to entrap the accused by deceitful means.'

She bit her lip, narrowly avoiding blurting out the words that were on the tip of her tongue:

‘God will recognise his true people, and you are not among them.'

Instead she affirmed:

‘I can think of no other informant.'

Florin was ecstatic. Even before Agnès entered the interrogation chamber he knew it would never occur to her
that her own daughter might be her most vehement accuser. The young girl, pampered by her uncle, had filled a page with well-turned phrases written in appallingly bad script containing enough poison to deal her mother a deathly blow. The girl's accusations – a mishmash of heresy, sorcery and immoral behaviour – smacked of Eudes de Larnay's scheming and Florin had not been taken in for a moment. On the contrary, he was certain of Agnès's innocence. It was a source of comfort to him that such a pretty exterior could conceal so much malice, resentment and jealousy, for the flawed natures of the majority of his fellow creatures guaranteed him a long and fruitful career. He was already savouring the thought of Agnès's devastation upon reading this ignoble calumny. Her own daughter, whom she had made every effort to protect, was prepared to send her to the stake without the slightest hesitation. What a delightfully amusing thought.

He approached Agnès and handed her the Gospels. She placed her hand on the enormous black book bound in leather.

‘Madame, do you solemnly swear before God and upon your soul to tell the truth?'

‘I do.' She recalled the words Clément had taught her, and added: ‘May God come to my aid if I keep this vow and may He condemn me if I perjure myself.'

Florin gave a little nod to the notary, who rose to his feet and declared:

‘Agnès, Dame de Souarcy and resident of Manoir de Souarcy, having been read the accusation and having placed her right hand upon the Gospels and sworn to tell the whole truth concerning herself and others, will now proceed to be cross-examined.'

Florin thanked the notary with a polite gesture and studied
Agnès at length, half closing his eyes, as though in prayer, before enquiring in a soft voice:

‘Madame de Souarcy, dear child, dear sister … Do you believe that Christ was born of a virgin?'

The cross-examination had begun with all its ruses and pitfalls; if she replied ‘I believe he was' it could be interpreted as a sign that she was unsure. Clément had read her a list of all the trick questions. She replied in a steady voice:

‘I am certain that Christ was born of a virgin.'

A flicker of annoyance showed on Florin's face. He continued:

‘Do you believe in the one Holy Catholic Church?'

Again, it was necessary to rephrase the sentence in order to prevent any unfavourable interpretation:

‘There exists no other church than the Holy Catholic Church.'

‘Do you believe that the Holy Ghost proceeds from the Father and the Son as we believe?'

She remembered Clément reading her the exact same sentence as though it were yesterday. Most of the accused responded in good faith, ‘I do.' The Grand Inquisitor then pointed out that they were skilfully twisting the words in the manner of heretics and that by ‘yes, I do' they really meant ‘yes, I believe that you believe it' when in fact they believed the contrary.

‘It is clear that the Holy Ghost proceeds from the Father and the Son.'

Florin continued in this vein for a few minutes before realising that he would not catch her out. He declared in a loud voice for all to hear:

‘I see that Madame de Souarcy has learned her lesson well.'

Before he could interrupt her, she retorted:

‘To what lesson are you referring, Seigneur Inquisitor? Are
you suggesting that faith in Jesus Christ is learned by rote like the alphabet? Surely we are born with it, of it. It is what we are. It illuminates and pervades us. Might you have learned it as another learns a meat recipe? I shudder to think.'

The colour drained from the inquisitor's face and he clenched his jaw. He stared at her darkly through his soft eyes. It flashed through her mind that he would have hit her if there had been no witnesses.

The Dominican friar who had questioned her cleared his throat awkwardly. She had scored a victory over Florin and he would be merciless. But she had also gained some time and, without knowing why, the need to hold out as long as she could seemed imperative.

Florin, struggling to regain his composure, ordered her to be taken back to her cell. As she descended into her daily hell, she kept repeating to herself:

‘Knowledge is power. The most invincible weapon, dear sweet Clément.'

The moment the guard had pushed her into her cell and slammed the heavy door behind her, she fell to her knees, clasped her hands together and tried to comprehend where the strength to hold her head up high and stand firm had come from.

‘Clémence … My sweet angel … Thank you.'

Back in the interrogation room, Florin was seething. He could not understand how the week of fasting and solitary confinement he had inflicted on his prey had not worn down her last resistance. This female had questioned him, ridiculed him in front of two of his brothers. He reviled her and – why not admit it? – he was beginning to fear her.

After she had gone he tried to manoeuvre himself back into a position of strength by declaring in a passionate voice filled with regret:

‘Such a clever tongue is a sure sign of a perverse and devious mind, and points more clearly to heresy than any accusation. We have seen how these lost souls defend themselves thanks to the deviant teachings they receive, and how they try to confuse us with their antics. Women, who by their very nature are treacherous and scheming, are even more expert at it.'

Maître Gauthier Richer, the notary, gave a little nod of approval. In his view, the cunning, calculating nature of women made them prime recruits for the devil. However, Nicolas Florin sensed that his little speech had not entirely convinced the two Dominican friars who had been summoned as witnesses. In particular Brother Jean, who had not yet spoken and refused to catch the inquisitor's eye.

Brother Anselme spoke again in a soft voice:

‘Let us reconsider, brother, my Lord Inquisitor, young Mathilde de Souarcy's damning testimony.'

‘Damning indeed,' Florin repeated, pleased by the choice of adjective. ‘In it Mademoiselle Mathilde …'

‘A direct reading of it might prove more enlightening, brother,' interrupted Jean de Rioux, speaking for the first time.

Florin searched for a hint of suspicion, hesitation or even complicity, in the man's voice, but found nothing to betray his witness's attitude. A fresh concern was added to the rage the inquisitor had felt during Agnès's declaration. The presence of religious witnesses belonging to the same order as the inquisitor made a mockery of justice. Indeed, Florin could not recall a single occasion during any trial where the former had contradicted
the latter. This was the real reason why he had chosen not to summon lay witnesses. Even so, everything about Brother Jean de Rioux worried him: his thoughtful silence, his composure, his unwillingness to look Florin in the eye, even his hands, which were oddly robust for a man of letters approaching fifty. Moreover, Anselme de Hurepal appeared to seek his approval before each of his interventions. He chided himself: he was behaving like a frightened child again. It was only natural for these two fools to take their role seriously, but he would give them short shrift as he had the others.

He approached the table and plucked Mathilde de Souarcy's statement from under a small pile of papers. He began reading aloud:

‘I, Mathilde Clémence Marie de Souarcy, only child of Madame Agnès de Souarcy …'

He did not see Jean glance at Anselme. The younger man interrupted on cue:

‘Pray, Brother Inquisitor … We are able to read. I believe that it would be most helpful if we acquainted ourselves with Mademoiselle de Souarcy's words in quiet contemplation, the better to consider their significance.'

Florin almost uttered a curse. What! Did these two fools dare to cast doubt on his word? Brother Anselme insisted:

‘Are we to understand that this young girl is not yet of age?'

‘She will be soon – in a year's time. Besides, the accusations of children against their parents are not only admitted but strongly encouraged regardless of their age. Indeed, who is better placed to judge corruption than those who live with it, who put up with it day in, day out?'

‘Indeed,' the Dominican conceded, stretching out his hand. Florin reluctantly passed him the statement. Brother Anselme read
it first and then handed it over to Brother Jean. The Dominican's impassive expression and his slowness in reading exasperated Florin. Finally, Brother Jean looked up and remarked:

‘These words are enough to condemn her without further ado.'

The inquisitor felt as though a weight had been lifted off his shoulders and said, smiling:

‘Did I not tell you? She is guilty and although it pains me greatly to say it I hold out little hope of her salvation.'

His relief was short-lived.

‘Even so … Is it not extraordinary that this young girl who barely knows how to hold a quill and whose script is so clumsily executed expresses herself with such consummate skill? Let us see … “My soul suffers at the thought of the constant abominations committed by Madame de Souarcy, my mother, and her persistent sinfulness and deviance make me fear for her soul” or “The young chaplain, so devout the day he arrived, oblivious to this shadow of evil hanging over us …” or “God granted me the strength to resist living with evil despite my mother's constant example …” Gracious me! What convincing rhetoric.'

Brother Jean raised his head and for the first time Florin's eyes met his. The man's gaze was infinite and he had the dizzying sensation of walking through a never-ending archway. Florin blinked involuntarily. Jean declared in a firm voice:

‘May I share our concern with you, Brother Inquisitor? Although we are only present in an … advisory capacity, we would find it very distressing if your purity and ardent faith were manipulated by false witnesses. We therefore strongly recommend that Mademoiselle de Souarcy be brought here to the Inquisition headquarters to be questioned before this assembly without her uncle being present.'

Florin hesitated for a fraction of a second. It was in his power to refuse this precautionary measure, but such a refusal would come back to haunt him. An unpleasant thought occurred to him. What if these two monks had been secretly placed as witnesses by Camerlingo Benedetti, to whom he owed his departure from Carcassonne and his new post at Alençon? What if they were in fact papal inspectors, like the ones sent by the Holy See to settle internal disputes in the monasteries or to ensure the smooth running of trials? Nicolas's career was too promising for him to take any unnecessary risks. He was in no doubt that the wretched little Mathilde would stand by her testimony and that Eudes could be counted upon to help her. However, the Dominican's request would mean a delay in proceedings. Still, the cloaked figure who had insisted Agnès de Souarcy must die had not specified any precise date.

The most prudent course of action would be to comply.

‘I am grateful to you, brother, for your concern. The knowledge that others are at hand to ensure the purity and integrity of the inquisitorial tribunal is invaluable to one such as I who presides in solitary judgement. Scribe … record the summoning of the witness and send for Mademoiselle de Souarcy.'

Another thought cheered him.

Once Mathilde had arrived he could arrange a confrontation between mother and daughter. What a delightful spectacle that promised to be.

É
leusie de Beaufort closed her eyes. A warm tear trickled down her face into the corner of her mouth. Blanche de Blinot, the senior nun, clenched her fist spasmodically and repeated as though she were reciting a litany:

‘What is happening, what is happening? She is dead, isn’t she? … How could she be dead? She was still so young!’

Gentle Adélaïde’s corpse lay in its coffin, which was resting on a pair of trestles in the middle of the registry, waiting to be taken to the abbey’s Church of Notre-Dame. Annelette Beaupré had struggled with the dead girl’s stubborn tongue, which protruded gruesomely, and had finally resorted to gagging the dead girl with a strip of linen in order to keep the thing inside her mouth. Consequently the dignity refused to her in death was restored.

They had all paid their respects, tearfully, silently or in prayer, to the young woman who had been in charge of the kitchens and their meals. Annelette had studied their different demeanours, the uneasy, distant or forlorn expressions on their faces, determined to discover the culprit among them, for she was convinced that her theory was correct and had shared her thoughts with the Abbess.

Éleusie had protested at first, but had soon yielded to the apothecary’s implacable logic and accepted the unacceptable: they were rubbing shoulders every day with the goodly Adélaïde’s killer. Her fear had given way to painful despair. Evil had slipped in with that creature of darkness Nicolas Florin. She had felt it.

The Abbess had remained at her desk for many hours, unable 
to move, unsure of how to act, of where to start. She had learned that no amount of prayer or lighting of candles could drive out evil. Evil would only recoil in the face of pure unflinching souls who were prepared to fight to the death. The titanic battle had no end; it had existed since the beginning of time and would go on raging until the end. Unless …

The time for peace had not yet come. Éleusie was going to fight because Clémence, Philippine and Claire would have taken up arms without a second thought. Why was she still alive when the others would have been so much better equipped for battle?

Early that morning, Jeanne d’Amblin had left on her rounds to visit the abbey’s regular benefactors and new alms givers.
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The extern sister had been reluctant to leave the Mother Abbess alone to face whatever came next. Éleusie had used all her authority to persuade Jeanne to go. Now she regretted her decision. Jeanne’s competence, her energy, her firm but gentle resolve were a comfort to her. She raised her eyes and glanced at Annelette, who was shaking her head.

She walked over to the apothecary, pulling Blanche behind her, and said in a hushed voice:

‘I want everybody, without exception, in the scriptorium in half an hour.’

‘That might prove dangerous,’ replied the tall woman.

‘Might we not do better to lead a more … discreet investigation?’

‘There is no greater danger than refusing to see, daughter. I want everyone to be there except for the lay women. I will see them later.’

‘The murderess might lash out if she feels cornered. If she fears discovery, she might attack another sister, perhaps even you.’

‘That is precisely what I’m hoping, to make her panic.’

‘It is too risky. Poisoning is such a subtle art that even I am powerless to prevent it. Could we not …’

‘That is an order, Annelette.’

‘I … Very well, Reverend Mother.’

A wall of still white robes ruffled only by a slight draught. Éleusie made out the tiny faces, brows, eyes and lips of the fifty-odd women, half of them novices, who were waiting, wondering why they had been summoned. And yet Éleusie was sure that no one but the murderess had suspected the true magnitude of the tidal wave that was about to engulf the scriptorium. Seated at one of the writing desks, Annelette lowered her head, fiddling absent-mindedly with a small knife used for sharpening quill pens. One question had been nagging at her since the evening before. Why would anyone find it necessary to kill poor Adélaïde? Had she uncovered the identity of the poisoner? Had she seen or heard something that implicated her killer? For the cup of herbal tea, which the apothecary had discovered, had been given to the sister in charge of meals at a time in the evening when she was alone in the kitchens. The murderess must have taken advantage of this fact to bring her the fatal beverage. In addition to these questions another worry was plaguing Annelette: what if the poisoner had taken the drug from her medicine cabinet in the herbarium? The apothecary nun was in the habit of treating pain, facial neuralgia and fever
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with dilutions of aconite.

‘Daughters … Sister Adélaïde is with Our Lord. Her soul, I know, rests in peace.’ Éleusie de Beaufort breathed in sharply before continuing in a strident voice: ‘However, the suffering endured by whoever has usurped the will of God will be eternal. Her punishment in this world will be terrible and the ensuing
torment inflicted upon her by the Almighty unimaginable.’

Some of the sisters glanced at one another, unable to grasp the meaning of this judgement. Others stared at their Abbess with a mixture of amazement and alarm. The morbid silence that had descended was broken by a flurry of voices, feet scraping the floor and stifled exclamations.

‘Silence!’ thundered Éleusie. ‘Silence, I have not finished yet.’

The astonished nervous whispers instantly came to a stop.

‘Our sweet sister Adélaïde was poisoned with a cup of honey and lavender tea that contained aconite.’

Fifty gasps rose as one and reverberated against the ceiling of the enormous scriptorium. Éleusie took advantage of the ensuing hubbub to examine the faces, searching in vain for any sign that might reveal the culprit.

‘Silence!’ Éleusie exclaimed. ‘Silence this instant! As you would expect, I do not intend to ask which of you brewed the tea as I doubt I would receive an answer.’ She paused and looked again at the fifty faces staring back at her, her gaze lingering on Berthe de Marchiennes, Yolande de Fleury, Hedwige du Thilay, but most of all on Thibaude de Gartempe. ‘However, you – and by you I mean the person responsible for this unforgivable crime – have underestimated me. I may not know your name yet, but I shall find it out before long.’

A tremulous voice broke the profound silence following this promise:

‘I don’t understand what’s going on. Will somebody please tell me what our Reverend Mother is saying?’

Blanche de Blinot was fidgeting on her bench, turning first to one sister then another. A novice leaned over and explained to her in a whisper.

‘But … I took her the tea!’ Thrown into a sudden panic, the 
old woman groaned: ‘You say she died from a cup of poisoned honey and lavender tea? How could that be?’

Éleusie looked at her as though a chasm were opening at her feet.

‘What are you saying, Blanche dear? That it was you who brewed the tea for Adélaïde?’

‘Yes. Well … No, it didn’t happen quite like that. I found the cup on my desk when I was preparing to go to vespers. I sniffed it … and well, I have never really cared much for lavender tea, it is too fragrant for me,’ she said in a hushed voice, as though confessing to some terrible sin. ‘Although I am partial to verbena, especially when it is flavoured with mint …’

‘Blanche … The facts, please,’ Éleusie interrupted.

‘Forgive me, Reverend Mother … I digress … I am getting so old … Well, I assumed Adélaïde had prepared it for me and so I took the cup back to the kitchen. She is … was such a considerate girl. She said it was a shame to waste it and that she would drink it herself.’

Éleusie caught the astonished eye of the apothecary nun. Who else besides the two of them had understood the significance of this exchange? Certainly not Blanche, the intended victim, who was agonising over having handed the poisoned tea to her cherished sister. Somebody had wanted to get rid of Blanche. But why? Why kill a half-deaf old woman who spent most of her time snoozing? Éleusie could feel a pair of hate-filled eyes boring into her from she did not know where. She made a monumental effort to carry on:

‘I am now in possession of the evidence I needed in order to follow up my suspicions. My theory of how to unmask the culprit is based upon the identity of the victim. Adélaïde’s death, however terrible, was a mistake. It is all becoming clear. You may
go now, daughters. I shall write directly to Monsieur Monge de Brineux, Seigneur d’Authon’s chief bailiff, informing him of this murder and providing him with the names of two likely suspects. I shall demand that the culprit be given a public beating before being executed. May God’s will be done.’

No sooner had she closed the door of her apartments than her show of authority, her bravado, crumbled. She sat on the edge of her bed, incapable of moving or even thinking. She waited, waited for the hand that would administer the poison, for the face filled with bottomless loathing or fear. She heard a sound in the adjoining study, the faint rustle of a robe. Death was approaching in a white robe, a wooden crucifix round its neck.

Annelette stood in the doorway to her bed chamber. Visibly upset, she stammered:

‘You …’

‘I what?’ murmured Éleusie, her weary voice barely audible.

Trembling with rage, the tall woman roared at her:

‘Why did you make such a claim? You have no more idea who is responsible for this horrific act than I. Why make believe that you do? Have you taken leave of your senses? She will kill you now to avoid being unmasked. You have left her no other option.’

‘That was my intention.’

‘I am helpless to protect you. There exist so many poisons and so few antidotes.’

‘Why did she try to poison Blanche de Blinot? The question haunts me, yet I can think up no answer. Do you think that Blanche …’

‘No. She still hasn’t realised that she was the intended victim. She is too upset by Adélaïde’s death. I have taken her back to her beloved steam room.’

‘And what about the others?’

‘The few who possess a modicum of intelligence suspect the truth.’

‘Who would do this?’

‘Don’t you mean why?’ corrected Annelette. ‘We are all in danger until we unravel this deadly plot. We must stop looking at the problem from the wrong angle. I, too, confess to concentrating on scrutinising the other sisters, but it is not the right approach. If we discover the motive, we will have the culprit.’

‘Do you think you will succeed?’ asked Éleusie, feeling reassured for the first time by the imposing woman’s forbidding presence.

‘I shall do my utmost. Your meals will no longer be served separately. You will help yourself from the communal pot. You will neither eat nor drink anything that is brought or offered to you. What were you thinking! If the murderess gives any credence to your declarations and thinks she’s been unmasked, she’ll …’

Éleusie’s exhaustion gave way to a strange calm. She declared resolutely:

‘I have cut off her retreat. Now she is forced to advance.’

‘By killing you?’

‘God is my judge. I am ready to meet Him and have no fear.’

‘You seem to place very little importance on your own life,’ said Annelette disdainfully. ‘Death is a trifling matter, indeed … It comes to us all and I wonder why we fear it so. Life is a far more uncertain and difficult undertaking. Have you decided to renounce it out of convenience or cowardice? I confess I am disappointed in you, Reverend Mother.’

‘I will not permit you to …’

Annelette interrupted her sharply:

‘I don’t give a fig for your permission! Have you forgotten that when you accepted your post you vowed to watch over your daughters? Now is not the time to go back on that vow. What were you expecting? That your time here at Clairets would pass by like a pleasant stroll in the country? It might have but it didn’t. Until we discover the intentions of this monster we will all be in danger.’

‘I thought death was a matter of indifference to you?’

‘It is. However, I confess that I place great value on my life and I haven’t the slightest intention of giving it away to the first killer who comes along.’

Éleusie was preparing a sharp rejoinder but was deterred by the sombre look in Annelette’s usually clear eyes. Annelette continued in a low voice:

‘You surprise me, Madame. Have you already forgotten all those who went before us? Have you forgotten that our quest outweighs any one of us and that our lives and deaths are no longer our own? Would you yield so easily when Claire chose to perish on the steps at Acre rather than surrender?’

‘What are you talking about?’ whispered Éleusie, taken aback by this unexpected declaration. ‘Who are you?’

‘I am Annelette Beaupré, your apothecary nun.’

‘What do you know about the quest?’

‘Like you, Madame, I am a link in the chain. But a link that will never yield.’

‘What are you talking about? A link in what chain?’

‘In a thousand-year-old chain that is timeless. Did you really believe that you, Francesco and Benoît were alone in your search?’

Éleusie was dumbfounded.

‘I …’

‘I believe Benoît was aware of every link down to the last rivet.’

‘Who are you?’ the Abbess repeated.

‘My mission is to watch over you. I do not know why and I do not ask. It is enough for me to know that my life will not have been in vain, that it will have been one of many fragments joining together to form the foundation of the purest and most noble sanctuary.’

A silence descended on the two women at the end of the confession. The Abbess’s incredulity was swept away by the sudden revelation. So, others besides Francesco, Benoît and her were working in the shadows and fearful of being discovered. Annelette’s chain conjured up a more far-reaching enterprise than Éleusie had ever imagined. How blind she had been never to have suspected. She wondered whether her nephew had been more perceptive. No. He would never have left his beloved aunt in the dark. This explained the frequent coincidences that had guided Éleusie’s life all these years, as well as Francesco’s sometimes inexplicable discoveries and Benoît’s help, even her appointment at Clairets. Éleusie had never requested the post, and yet it was here that the secret library was located. And Manoir de Souarcy was a stone’s throw from the abbey.