The Lady Agnes Mystery, Volume 1 (41 page)

O
ne of Philip the Fair’s huge lurchers was gazing at him balefully. Guillaume de Nogaret sat waiting in the King’s study chambers, trying his best not to move for fear that the bitch with a white coat and brindled markings on her head might interpret his slightest gesture as a threat. These animals allegedly killed their prey with a single bite. He understood the need for them, though not what induced the ladies to keep the more decorative of these four-legged creature as pets, even going so far as to dress them in embroidered coats to keep them warm in winter.
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It was true that to Monsieur de Nogaret’s mind God’s only true creature was man, and to a lesser extent woman, and the Almighty had put all other species on earth for him to use without ill-treating or doing violence to them.

The counsellor saw Philip the Fair’s tall, emaciated figure appear at the far end of the gloomy corridor he had been staring down. He stood up to the immediate accompaniment of unfriendly growls from the bitch, which moved forward, sniffing vigorously at the hem of his coat.

‘Down,’ he ordered in a hushed tone.

This had the effect of making the dog growl even more loudly. As soon as her master entered the room, she bounded over to him and placed herself between him and this man whose smell she did not care for.

‘There’s a good girl, Delmée,’ Philip said reassuringly, bending down to pat her. ‘Go and lie down, my beauty. Did you know, my dear Nogaret, that she is the fastest of all my hunting dogs, and that she can snap a hare’s spine with one bite?’

‘A truly fine animal,’ the counsellor conceded with such a lack of conviction that it brought a smile to Philip’s lips.

‘I sometimes wonder what other interests or amusements you have besides the affairs of state and the law.’

‘None, Sire, which do not relate to your affairs.’

‘Well, how do things stand regarding my pope? Benoît XI, or rather his sudden demise, has left me in an invidious position.’

Nogaret was in no way offended by this remark. And yet, if the Pope’s unexpected passing had left anybody in a delicate situation, it was he. His plan to provide Philip the Fair with a Holy Father who was more concerned with spiritual matters than France’s affairs of state was still not ready. Guillaume de Nogaret detested acting hastily, but the forthcoming election gave him no choice. He explained:

‘On my behalf Guillaume de Plaisians has approached Renaud de Cherlieu, Cardinal of Troyes, and Bertrand de Got,* Archbishop of Bordeaux. These are our two most promising candidates.’

‘And?’

‘It will doubtless come as no surprise to you, Sire, to learn that they are both, and I quote, “extremely interested in serving our Holy Mother Church”.’

‘Indeed, it comes as no surprise, Nogaret. The papal crown confers countless benefits, including, I suppose, money. What do they demand for deigning to rule over Christendom?’

‘They are both equally greedy … Privileges, titles for family members, various gifts and certain assurances from you.’

‘What assurances?’

‘That their authority in spiritual matters should remain established and that you should no longer interest yourself in the administration of the French Church.’

‘The French Church is in France and I am the ruler of France. The landed wealth of the French Church is so vast that it would make even my richest lords green with envy. Why should it enjoy even greater privilege?’

Nogaret equivocated:

‘Indeed, Sire … But we need a pope who will be well disposed towards you. Let us offer these assurances … Do you really think that the successful candidate will come complaining and risk the negotiations that led to his election being revealed?’

Philip the Fair’s pursed lips betrayed his ill humour.

‘Which one do we favour?’

‘If we have considered them both, it is because their willingness to serve us is unquestionable. Monseigneur de Got is certainly the shrewder of the two, though like Cherlieu a mild-mannered man, a trait, if I may say so, which influenced our choice.’

‘Indeed, we do not want a strong personality. And what do they intend to do about that scourge, Boniface VIII? You are aware, Nogaret, of how keen I am for him to be deposed, albeit posthumously, in revenge for poisoning my existence. He systematically opposed my every order, and I am convinced he even went so far as to instigate the rebellion in the Languedoc by backing that troublemaker Bernard Délicieux.* Boniface …’ the King said with contempt. ‘An arrogant blunder whose memory is a stain on Christianity!’

Their mutual loathing for Benoît XI’s predecessor created a further bond between the two men.

‘Plaisians has naturally broached the matter with tact and diplomacy. They both appeared to listen carefully to him, and in any event showed no hostility.’

‘How will we choose between the two, for we are unable to move two pawns at the same time?’

‘I would give my backing to the Archbishop of Bordeaux, Monseigneur de Got.’

‘And your reasons?’

‘You are better acquainted than I with his skill as a diplomat. Furthermore, the Gascons like him, which will earn us additional votes at no cost and with no need for open intervention. Finally and most importantly, Monseigneur de Got has come out in favour of reuniting all the military orders under one flag, and thus of ending the Templars’ autonomy. Our motives may differ, but we seek the same end.’

‘Let it be Monsieur de Got, then. We shall back him resolutely and discreetly, and make sure he shows his gratitude.’

C
rouched in the corner of a tiny room, dark and dank, stinking of excreta and sour milk. Crouched on the muddy floor that has coated her skimpy dress, her calves and thighs with a foul greenish film. Crouching, straining in the darkness, trying to make sense of the sounds she heard. There had been a voice barking out orders, obscene laughter and cries followed by screams of pain. Then a terrified silence. Crouching, trying hard to merge into the stone walls, hoping to dissolve there, to vanish for ever. Steps coming to a halt outside the solid-looking low door. A voice declaring:

‘At least they say this female’s pleasing and comely!’

‘She used to be. She looked more like a beggar when I brought her back down from the interrogation room.’

A loud rapping on the door. Why did they keep on when all they needed to do was pull the bolt across? The rapping grew louder and louder. Stop, I say, stop …

Éleusie de Beaufort managed to wrench herself free from the nightmare that had ensnared her. Drenched in sweat, she sat up in bed. Agnès. The torture. The torture was about to begin. What was Francesco doing?

Somebody was moving outside the door to her chambers. A voice cried out. It was Annelette:

‘Reverend Mother, I beg you, wake up … Jeanne … Hedwige …’

She leapt out of bed and ran to open the door.

Thibaude de Gartempe, the guest mistress, was clinging to Annelette Beaupré’s arm. Behind the two women stood Emma
de Pathus and Blanche de Blinot, both deathly pale.

‘What is it?’ asked Éleusie, alarmed, as she straightened her veil.

Thibaude shouted in a rasping voice:

‘They’re going to die, they’re going to die … Oh dear Lord … I won’t stay in this godforsaken place a moment longer … I want to leave, now …’

The guest mistress, her eyes flashing and in the grip of hysteria, looked ready to hurl herself at the Abbess. Annelette tried to pacify her and snapped:

‘That’s enough! Let go of me! You’re digging your nails into my arm. Let go, I say …’

The other woman cried out: ‘I want to leave … Let me leave. If you …’

A stinging slap jerked the woman’s head to one side. Annelette was preparing to raise her hand again when Éleusie intervened:

‘Will somebody tell me what is going on!’

‘It is Jeanne d’Amblin and Hedwige du Thilay. They are terribly ill. The vomiting began just after bedtime.’

The Abbess felt the blood drain from her face. She began shaking and in a barely audible voice asked:

‘Yew poisoning?’

‘It could be. I’m still not sure, although the symptoms appear to be consistent.’

Without a word Éleusie leapt out into the corridor and ran to the dormitories, followed by the four women.

Jeanne d’Amblin lay between sheets soaked in bloody vomit, her eyes closed, her chest barely lifting as she breathed, her face twisted into a grimace of excruciating pain. Éleusie placed a hand on the woman’s icy brow then stood up straight, trying her best to stifle the sobs that were choking her.

Annelette roared:

‘Where is the water I ordered?’

A petrified novice handed her a jug, spilling a quarter of the contents on the floor.

A cry rang out from the other end of the dormitory:

‘She’s leaving us … No, it’s not possible … Somebody, do something …’

Éleusie rushed over. Hedwige du Thilay’s head had just flopped onto the shoulder of the sister in charge of the fishponds and henhouses, Geneviève Fournier. Beside herself, powerless to accept the truth, she was shaking the treasurer nun’s frail little body in an effort to revive her and whispering:

‘Please, Hedwige dear, please wake up … Come along, Hedwige, come along now … Can’t you hear me? It’s me, Geneviève, remember, with my turkeys, my eggs, my carp and crayfish. Please try, I beg you. You must breathe, Hedwige dear. Look, I’ll help you. I’ll loosen your nightshirt and you’ll feel more comfortable.’

With surprising gentleness, Annelette attempted to free the poor woman’s skinny corpse, but Geneviève refused to let go. Annelette sniffed the bluish lips and stuck her finger in Hedwige’s mouth in order to smell her saliva. Then she kissed Geneviève’s brow, which was slick with sweat, and murmured:

‘She’s dead. Let go of her, please.’

‘No. No!’ shrieked the sister in charge of the fishponds. ‘It’s not possible!’

She clung on to her sister, almost lying on top of her lifeless body and buried her face in the woman’s neck, repeating in a frantic voice:

‘No, it’s not possible. The Lord wouldn’t allow it. He wouldn’t allow one of his sweetest angels to be taken like that. I know he
wouldn’t! No, dear Annelette, you’re mistaken – she isn’t dead at all. She’s fainted, that’s all. It’s just a nasty turn. You know what a frail constitution she has. Dead! … What nonsense!’

Éleusie was about to intervene, but Annelette discouraged her with a shake of her head and instructed:

‘We must see to Jeanne now that I think I know which poison we are dealing with.’ She added in a whisper so that Geneviève Fournier would not hear: ‘Not a word to Jeanne about Hedwige’s death. You know how close they were. Our extern sister’s life is hanging by a thread and there is no point in weakening her chances by dealing her a terrible blow.’

They turned away for a time from the woman who refused despair, knowing that the respite would be short-lived and that the gentle Geneviève’s grief would soon hit her with all the force of an implacable truth.

Jeanne was suffocating. Waves of nausea filled her mouth with bloody saliva that oozed down her chin. She let out a cry:

‘Dear God, the pain … My stomach is bursting. Bless me, Reverend Mother, for I have sinned … I beg you, bless me before … it’s too late … Water … I’m so thirsty … Bless me …’

Éleusie made the sign of the cross on her brow and murmured:

‘I bless you, my daughter, my friend, and hereby absolve you of your sins.’

A faint relief slackened the grimace of pain etched on Jeanne’s face. The dying woman managed to whisper:

‘Is Hedwige any better?’

‘Yes, Jeanne, we hope that she may live,’ Éleusie lied.

‘We … we were poisoned at the same time.’

‘I know … Rest, preserve your strength, daughter.’

Jeanne closed her eyes and spluttered:

‘Damn her …’

‘She is damned, now try to be quiet.’

Annelette picked up the ewer of water and ordered Jeanne to be held down and her mouth forced open.

The dying woman tried feebly to resist, and groaned:

‘Let me die in peace. I am at peace.’

For the next quarter of an hour, the apothecary nun forced her to drink, ignoring her pathetic protestations and the gagging that made her cough and spit. Two novices took turns to fetch water from the kitchens. After Jeanne, whose strength was waning fast, had swallowed several pints of fluid, the apothecary nun stood up straight, the front of her robe soaked in water and bloody vomit. Pointing a threatening finger at Emma de Pathus and Yolande de Fleury, who had been standing silently, transfixed, beside the bed since the nightmarish scene began, she ordered:

‘Sit her up and keep her upright.’

The two nuns pulled Jeanne’s inert body into a sitting position.

‘You two,’ she commanded, turning towards the quaking novices, ‘open her mouth and keep it open until she starts vomiting.’

They all obeyed, incapable of uttering a word.

Annelette thrust her fingers down Jeanne’s throat, faintly disgusted by the fetid yet sweet smell of her breath, and fingered her uvula until the poisoned woman’s diaphragm began to contract. She waited until her hand was bathed in a flood of warm liquid from the intestines before releasing her sister, who was gradually regurgitating the contents of her stomach.

Half an hour later when they lay Jeanne back comfortably, her heartbeat was still irregular and her limbs were shaking, but she was having less difficulty breathing.

Éleusie followed Annelette down the corridor. Blanche de Blinot was leaning up against one of the pillars and weeping into
her hands. She raised her head when she heard them coming and wailed:

‘I’m a coward. A cowardly old woman. I am so afraid of death. I feel ashamed.’

‘Blanche, do not be so hard on yourself,’ Éleusie sighed. ‘Death is a worry to us all, even though we know that a wondrous place awaits us beside Our Lord.’

Turning towards Annelette Beaupré, the old woman asked:

‘Will Jeanne die too?’

‘I don’t know. Hedwige was frailer and older than Jeanne. And she may have swallowed more of the poison. We won’t know until we have found out how they ingested it.’

‘But why?’ whispered the senior nun, sniffling.

‘We do not know that either, dear Blanche. And if I had formed a theory, it now needs reappraising in light of the two new victims’ identities,’ the Abbess suggested, thinking of the plans of the abbey locked in the safe.

For if the murderess’s aim was to steal them, then why poison Hedwige and Jeanne who did not have the keys? She did her best to comfort Blanche, adding:

‘Go and rest for a while. The novices are watching over Jeanne. They will inform us of any change in her condition.’