Читать книгу The Breath of the Rose - Андреа Жапп - Страница 9

NICOLAS Florin was adamant that Agnès de Souarcy should be installed in the stout wooden wagon that gave the impression of a tomb on wheels. Minute arrow slits on each side allowed the occupants a limited view of the outside world. These were covered by leather curtains so that in the event of an attack no arrow could pierce the narrow openings. Four Perche horses were needed to draw the wagon.

The five men-at-arms requested by Nicolas Florin sat beside the driver or were jostled about on a cart trundling along behind. Agnès’s belongings were contained in a small chest while, in an astonishing display of extravagance for an inquisitor, those of Nicolas filled an enormous trunk. An escort of five men-at-arms for one woman seemed an exaggerated precaution, but the Dominican was fond of such excesses. He saw them as visible proof of his newly acquired power.

His eyes were glued to Agnès, watching for the slightest sigh, the merest tensing of her jaw. Indeed, it was the reason he had given the order for her to travel with him in the wagon instead of in the cart. Did she regard the gesture as a mark of respect for her social status? Florin could not tell, and the thought had irritated him from the outset of their journey. Things were not going according to plan and had not been since the day of their first encounter when he had gone to notify her of the beginning of her period of grace. Did she really think she could get the better of him? Or that he would show her mercy? If this were the case, she would soon be disappointed. He lifted the leather flap and peered out at the sky. Night was falling. Since sext* they had been advancing at the horses’ slow but steady pace. She had not once raised her eyes from her hands clasped upon her lap, or uttered a single word, or even asked for water or a halt in order to relieve herself – something Nicolas would have been only too glad to agree to in the hope that she might be humiliated into wetting her shoes or the hem of her skirts in the presence of one of his guards.

A vague feeling of unease crept into the Grand Inquisitor’s irritation. Had his victim received guarantees of protection? If so, from whom? From Comte Artus d’Authon or the Abbess of Clairets* or someone more highly placed? But who could be more powerful than the man behind the imposing figure who had paid him a visit at the Inquisition* headquarters in Alençon? No. He was behaving like a scared child. The bastard was adopting the haughty air of the sort of lady she aspired to be, nothing more.

She raised her blue-grey eyes from her hands, which were joined in prayer, and stared at Nicolas. He felt an unpleasant warmth suffusing his face and diverted his gaze, cursing himself as he did so. There was something peculiar about this woman – something he had not taken the time or had been unwilling to see. He tried now to analyse what he felt, but without much success. At times he had experienced the thrill of terrifying her, just as he did the others. But then all of a sudden another woman appeared, like a secret door leading to a mysterious underground passageway. And that other woman was not afraid of him. For some reason, Florin was quite sure that Agnès had no control over these transformations. Had he been an unthinking fanatic like some of his brothers, he would no doubt have seen it as proof of demonic possession. But Florin did not believe in the devil. And as for God, well, he had little time for Him. The pleasures life had to offer to those who knew how to take them were of greater concern to the Grand Inquisitor. Among the many he had condemned to death for sorcery or possession, Florin had never come across any convincing proof of the existence of miracle workers or witches.

His annoyance got the better of his cunning and he blurted out:

‘As I am sure you are aware, Madame, the inquisitorial procedure* permits no other counsel than the accused himself.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Indeed?’

‘I am aware of that particularity,’ she said in a voice whose confident tone humiliated the inquisitor.

He stifled the anger welling up in him and the accompanying urge to slap her. He knew he should have held his tongue, but the desire to watch her face turn pale was too overpowering, and he continued, forcing himself to speak softly:

‘It is not customary to reveal the identity of the witnesses for the prosecution, any more than the content of their accusations … However, because you are a lady, I may grant you this privilege …’

‘I have no doubt that you will do all that is necessary and correct, Monsieur. If you do not mind, I should like to take a short nap. The long days ahead require me to be rested.’

She leaned her head against the back of the wooden bench and closed her eyes.

Florin’s eyes filled with tears of rage, and he pursed his lips for fear he might utter an oath that would reveal his agitation to Agnès. He was vaguely consoled by the words of one of the most celebrated canonists: ‘The aim of trying and sentencing the accused to death is not to save his soul but to uphold public morals and strike fear into the hearts of the people … When an innocent refuses to confess, I resort to torture in order to send him to the stake.’1

Agnès had no wish to sleep. She was reflecting. Had she won a first victory in the long battle for which she was preparing herself? She sensed this man’s puzzling hostility towards her and his exasperation.

Is it your still-innocent soul that protects me even now, Clément? Thanks to him Agnès knew that Florin was using the first of many tricks in the inquisitor’s arsenal.

Many months before, on a July evening when it was nearly dark, Clément had returned in an excited state from one of his frequent forays. It was already late and Agnès had retired to her chambers. The young girl had scratched at her door and asked to see her for a moment.

No. She must never think of Clément other than as a boy or she risked making a blunder that would endanger both their lives. She must continue to refer to him only in the masculine.

The child had tapped at her door and asked to see her for a moment. He had stumbled upon a copy of Consultationes ad inquisitores haereticae pravitatis2 by Gui Faucoi, who had been counsellor to Saint Louis before becoming Pope Clément IV. The treatise was accompanied by a slim volume, or, rather, a manual of bloodcurdling procedures. He had stammered:

‘M-Madame, Madame … if only you knew … they use trickery and deceit in order to obtain confessions, even false ones.’

An inscription at the head of the slender manual read: ‘Everything should be done to ensure that the accused cannot proclaim his innocence so the sentence cannot be deemed unjust …’3

‘What an abomination,’ she had murmured in disbelief. ‘But this is about trial by ordeal … How is it possible? Where did you come across these works?’

The child had given a muddled explanation. He had mentioned a library and then skilfully evaded Agnès’s questions.

‘I see in it a sign from God, Madame. Knowing and anticipating your enemies’ ploys means avoiding the traps they lay for you.’

He had described them to her: the technique of coercion and humiliation aimed at breaking down even the toughest resistance, the scheming, the manipulation of witnesses. The wretched victims were questioned on points of Christian doctrine. Their ignorance should have come as no surprise to anyone and yet was used as proof of their heresy. Clément had also listed the few possibilities of appeal at the disposition of the accused. As almost no one was made aware of them they were rarely invoked. It was possible, for example, to appeal to the Pope – though such appeals had every chance of being mislaid, often intentionally, unless an influential messenger delivered them directly to Rome. An objection to an inquisitor could be made on the grounds that he harboured a particular animosity towards the accused. However, the process was liable to miscarry since it required judgement, and very few judges were willing to risk getting on the wrong side of an inquisitor or a bishop associated with the Inquisition.

Clément had managed to dash any last hopes his lady might have entertained by adding that the majority of inquisitors, although they received a wage, rewarded themselves with the confiscated property of the condemned men and women. It was therefore against their interests for the latter to be found innocent, and wealthy victims, although more difficult targets, were desirable prey.

The knowledge Clément had acquired from some unknown source had allowed Agnès to forge what she hoped would be her most reliable weapons when confronting Florin.

The inquisitors’ initial ploy, then, was to swap the names of the witnesses and their accusations. Thus the first accusation would be attributed to the fifth witness, the second to the fourth, the third to the first, and so on … In this way the accused would appear clumsy in his defence against each informer. Cleverer still, they added the names of people who had never come forward as witnesses to the list of actual informers. But the subtlest, most convincing and preferred method was to ask the accused in a roundabout way whether he was aware of having any deadly enemies who might perjure themselves in order to bring about his downfall. If the accused failed to mention the most fervent of his accusers, their testimony was placed above suspicion since by his own admission they could not be fabrications. In each case the protection of witnesses was considered essential for the very good reason that ‘without such a precaution, nobody would ever dare testify’.

Curiously, these revelations, which had so shaken her that night, now came to her aid. Had she believed that she was about to be dragged before impartial judges whose sole concerns were truth and faith then her resolve would have been weakened. She would have searched inside herself for the failing that could justify such harsh punishment. Clément had helped her to understand the wicked nature of this farcical trial. Only a noble enemy deserves a fair fight.

Her thoughts had been wandering in this way for a while when Florin’s voice almost made her jump. He thought he had woken her and this gave him further cause for alarm. How was she able to sleep at a time like this?

‘Owing to the limited space at the Alençon headquarters, you will be subjected to murus strictus while you are in custody, unless that is … the midwife attests that you are with child.’

‘Perhaps you have forgotten that I have been a widow for many years. Is not murus strictus a severe punishment rather than a … temporary accommodation?’

He seemed surprised that she would have knowledge of such things; the secrets of the Inquisition were jealously guarded in order to further demoralise the accused. The ‘narrow wall’ was simply a gloomy, damp dungeon the size of a cupboard where it was possible to chain prisoners to the walls.

‘Madame … we are not monsters!’ he exclaimed with feigned indignation. ‘You are allowed brief visits from members of your close family – at least before the beginning of … the real interrogation.’

The torture, she thought. She tried to respond in an impassive voice:

‘You are too kind, my lord.’

Agnès closed her eyes again in order to end the conversation, whose only aim was to frighten her. Her heart was pounding in her chest and it took a supreme effort of will for her to control her breathing. The only way she could control or stifle her mounting terror was by clinging to the thought that she had managed to place Mathilde and Clément out of harm’s way.

Half an hour later, Florin shouted: ‘Stop!’ causing Agnès to start.

‘We shall make a brief halt, Madame. Would you like to use the opportunity to stretch your legs?’

Despite her determination not to give in, she needed a moment to herself. After a second’s hesitation she replied:

‘Gladly.’

He leapt nimbly to the ground and refrained from offering to help her down. One of the guards hurried over and handed him a package, probably containing food and refreshment. The inquisitor studied her for a moment and asked:

‘Do you require a little privacy, Madame?’

Stifling a sigh of relief, she accepted:

‘Indeed, my Lord Inquisitor.’

‘I think we all do. Hey, you over there, escort Madame.’

A big brute with a squashed face walked up to them. Agnès was on the verge of changing her mind, of saying that she preferred to wait until they reached Alençon. She was dissuaded by the smirk on Florin’s face and the pain that had been searing her belly for hours. She spotted a thicket of bushes and walked over to it. The brute followed.

Once she was out of view of the others, she waited for the man to turn away, but his eyes were glued to her. His moist lips spread in a lecherous smile as she lifted her skirts. Agnès squatted, her anger eclipsing any embarrassment she might have felt, and stared straight at her escort. The man’s smile dissolved and he lowered his gaze. This small victory comforted the young woman. It was a sign that she could prevail.

She did not remain outside enjoying a little more fresh air, but climbed straight back into the clumsy wagon. She could smell through the crack in the door the faintly acrid odour of bracken and the soothing forest air, heavy with humidity.

Florin glanced down at the hem of her dress as he sat down opposite her. Agnès fought back the urge to point out that she had not wet her gown. She had hitched up her skirts and if his man-at-arms had glimpsed her calf or her knee then much good might it do him. She was beyond such foolish concerns, though at other times and in other places they would have seemed of the utmost importance to her.

When they finally reached Alençon, Agnès’s lips were parched with thirst.

The wagon rattled over the cobbled courtyard of the Inquisition headquarters. Florin announced in a hushed voice:

‘We have arrived, Madame. You must be exhausted after the long journey. I will show you without delay to what will be your … lodgings over the coming weeks.’

Agnès was in no doubt as to his motives. He wanted to see the distress on her face, and she prepared for the worst – or so she thought.

Despite the enveloping gloom, the inquisitor strode confidently towards a small flight of steps leading up to a heavy door reinforced with struts. She followed, aware of two guards some yards behind her.

An icy cold pervaded the hallway. Florin ordered a few candles to be lit, and in the flickering light it occurred to Agnès that he resembled a beautiful vision of evil.

‘Come along,’ he chivvied, the excitement becoming evident in his voice.

They crossed the low-ceilinged room, which was devoid of any furniture except for a vast table of dark wood flanked by benches. Florin walked over to a door on the right of the enormous room.

Suddenly, a young man appeared as if from nowhere and stood at Agnès’s side.

Florin declared in an alarmingly gentle voice:

‘Why, Agnan, you look only half awake. Could it be that while I was crossing hill and dale for the greater glory of the Church you were sleeping?’

Out of all the clerics, Nicolas had chosen Agnan to be his secretary because the young man’s unredeemed ugliness suited him to perfection. Ugliness. What a splendid example of injustice. Agnan was the sweetest, gentlest creature, honest and pious, and yet those beady close-set eyes, that bony protruding nose and receding chin were deformities that inspired immediate mistrust in the onlooker. On the other hand, who would have believed that Nicolas’s long slender frame, his gentle slanting eyes and full lips concealed a soul whose darkness would have struck fear into the heart of any lay executioner? And so Agnan suited Nicolas down to the ground, and moreover he was easily intimidated.

‘Indeed not, my Lord Inquisitor. I have been busy assembling the various pieces of evidence for the forthcoming trial in order to further you in your task,’ explained the other man timidly.

‘Good.’ Nicolas gestured towards Agnès without looking at her, and added: ‘Madame de Souarcy is to be our guest.’

Agnan glanced nervously at the young woman then quickly lowered his head. And yet she could have sworn she saw a flicker of compassion in the secretary’s eyes.

‘Very good, run along now and keep up the good work.’

The other man bowed, stammering his agreement, and left with a rustle of his dowdy habit made of homespun wool.

One of the men-at-arms rushed to open the low door. A stone spiral staircase plunged into the murky blackness. The guard went ahead to light the way. As they descended into the cellars, the damp, acrid air caught in Agnès’s throat and soon combined with the lingering odour of mud, excrement, pus and rotting flesh.

The staircase opened onto a floor of beaten earth that had turned into sludge with the first rise in the water level of the river Sarthe. Agnès breathed through her mouth in an attempt to quell her feeling of nausea. Florin declared cheerfully:

‘After a few days one grows accustomed to it and the stench is no longer noticeable.’

The underground chamber seemed vast; bigger, Agnès thought, than the surface area of the Inquisition headquarters. The supporting pillars were joined up by bars that demarcated the cells. They walked alongside the cages, which were too cramped for a man to stand up in. Occasionally, the flickering light from Florin’s candle briefly illuminated an inert figure huddled in a corner, asleep perhaps, or dead.

‘We are not accustomed to receiving ladies of your standing,’ Florin said ironically. ‘Although I am a monk, I am still a man of the world and as such have reserved one of the three individual cells for you.’

Agnès was perfectly aware that this gesture was not motivated by any consideration for her wellbeing. His aim was to deprive her of all contact – even with her fellow prisoners, who admittedly were in no position to offer her any solace. For the first time she found herself wondering whether he might not be afraid her. Nonsense. What could he possibly fear from her?

The floor sloped gently downwards, and they passed beneath the vaulted ceiling and alongside the remaining cells enclosing the poor tortured, terrified souls. Agnès’s shoes sank into the thick mud. They were certainly close to the river. A damp, unhealthy chill caused her to shiver, and the idea that she would soon be alone, shut in with this foul odour, undermined her resolve not to allow her fear to show. Strangely, even Florin’s evil presence felt preferable to this void full of horrors that awaited her. All of a sudden something slippery gripped her ankle and she screamed. A guard rushed over and, pulling her roughly to one side, stamped his heavy wooden clog onto a hand … A bloodstained hand drooping through the bars of one of the cages. There was a wail, then whimpering ending in a sob.

‘Madame … there is no hope of salvation here. Die, Madame, die quickly.’

‘What foolishness!’ exclaimed Florin, and then in a voice that had regained all of its cheerfulness he warned the shadowy figure of a man hunched against the bars: ‘Pray, but pray in silence; you have offended our ears enough with your griping!’

She remained motionless a few steps away from the cage, peering into the darkness that the candle flames struggled vainly to illuminate. Could those two blue openings surrounded by what looked like raw flesh be eyes? And was that gaping wound a mouth?

‘Dear God …’ she groaned.

‘He has forsaken us,’ responded the feeble voice.

‘Blasphemy!’ Florin shrieked, pulling her by her coat sleeve. ‘And he protests his innocence.’

A few yards further on they came to a door that could only be entered by bending double. It had no peephole. One of the guards drew back the bolt and stepped aside. The inquisitor walked in, followed by Agnès.

‘Your chamber, Madame,’ he announced cheerily, and then in a voice suddenly filled with loving sadness: ‘Believe me, my child, there is nothing quite like peace and quiet for putting one’s thoughts in order. I hope that you will have time in here to reflect, to see the error of your ways. My overriding desire is to help you return to the Lord’s fold. I would give my life in return for saving your lost soul.’

The door slammed, the bolt grated. She was standing alone in total darkness. She began to walk tentatively, sliding one foot after the other. As soon as her leg touched the primitive bed she had been able to make out in the gloom, she collapsed on it in a heap.

She was gripped by a sudden panic, and it was all she could do to stop herself from screaming and hurling herself against the door, pummelling it with all her might, begging them to come back for her.

And what if they left her there to rot, dying of hunger and thirst? What if they waited until she went mad and then declared her possessed?

That man, that wretched soul who had grasped her ankle and implored her to die quickly. He knew. He knew that years of detention awaiting trial could turn into a lifetime on the pretext of further inquiries. He knew about privation, humiliation, weeks of torture. He had learned to live with the fear and certainty that few ever escaped the Inquisition’s clutches.

Silence! He wants you to give up and let go of life. I order you to stand firm! Baronne de Larnay, Madame Clémence would not have given in. Stand firm!

If you plead guilty, you will languish here until death comes to claim you, and Mathilde and Clément will be doomed. They will endeavour to declare you a relapsed heretic – the most heinous of crimes in their eyes.

Remember, you will be shown no mercy, he will not be moved to pity. Stand firm!

Even as she admonished herself, she was struck by the terrible certainty that Florin was enjoying himself. However absurd the idea might seem, Florin was not driven by material gain, still less by faith. He took pleasure in torturing. He enjoyed causing suffering, lacerating and disembowelling. He rejoiced in making his victims scream. She was his latest toy.

An acid saliva rose in her mouth and she bent double as she cried out.

Clémence … Clémence, my angel, bless me with a miracle.

Show that you deserve the miracle by standing firm!