Читать книгу Lady Agnes Mystery Vol.2 - Андреа Жапп - Страница 10

It was dusk when Agnan, secretary to the late Nicolas Florin, left the Inquisition headquarters. Two weeks had passed since the demise of the Grand Inquisitor, allegedly stabbed to death during a chance encounter with a drunkard. The sickly young man was ready to swear that these were the happiest weeks of his life. He was equally ready to swear on his life that he had been close to glimpsing an act of divine intervention. In Agnan’s eyes it had been so remorseless, so unquestionably just that it could not have been anything but divine in essence. Not that he was superstitious or foolish enough to believe that an avenging angel had intervened to slay the beautiful and ignoble torturer. On the contrary, Agnan had gradually persuaded himself that the Knight of Justice and Grace, Francesco de Leone, had used his sword to defend God’s lambs. For only a wolf could protect lambs against other wild animals. What other explanation could there be for the Hospitaller’s* timely intervention at the start of the torture of this woman who had so overwhelmed the young clerk?

His euphoria caused him to quicken his pace without him even realising it. He whose ugliness made people turn away. His beady eyes, sharp nose and receding chin rendered him unsightly, gave him a weaselly look that inspired mistrust, even disgust. And yet that radiant creature, that woman, had touched him, had gazed into his eyes as though she were able to see past his deceptive exterior, his outward mask. Her soul, unbreakable as a diamond, had caressed his, and he would bear its trace for ever. What joy, what indescribable joy he had felt at being so close to perfection.

A charming thought occurred to him. He was surprised that he hadn’t noticed it before: they shared the same Christian name.

Agnès, Agnan. This coincidence, though meaningless and trivial, filled him with pleasure. Agnan shivered, but did not think to pull up his cowl. A stubborn layer of powdery snow had settled on the cobblestones and crunched beneath his wooden clogs. A damp fog clung to the walls, enveloping the houses and closed shops in an eerie silence. A smile played across the young man’s face. He was oblivious to the biting cold seeping through his habit of homespun wool and his threadbare cape. He, Agnan, had played a role in saving Madame de Souarcy. The meagre offering of bacon and eggs he had filched from the kitchens and secretly taken down to her cell had helped to give her the strength she needed to resist the shameful trial that had ensued. It was in part owing to him that the knight Leone, whom he had shown to her cell and warned of the imminent arrival of the monstrous inquisitor, had rescued her. He felt his face grow pink with shame. Was it not wildly arrogant of him to assign himself a role, however small, in Agnès de Souarcy’s rescue? And yet he needed desperately to believe that he had laboured obstinately and selflessly, despite the fear instilled in him by the beast Florin.

Wrapped up in these, by turns, sad and joyous thoughts, he was unaware of the shadowy figure tailing him at a distance. He turned into Rue de la Poêle-Percée which led to Place de l’Étape-au-Vin, and wandered distractedly towards Saint-Aignan Church. In order to save himself a detour, he decided to cut through a narrow alleyway between two rows of houses made of wood and cob with shingle roofs, reflecting that, if he were attacked by thieves, nobody would leave their homes on such a dark night to come to his aid. He shrugged. Only a fool or a madman would rob a humble clerk who possessed only the clothes on his back, which were scarcely less ragged than those of a pauper.

In reality, Agnan was clear in his mind. He knew that he continually mulled over his encounter with Agnès de Souarcy, obsessively recollecting every last detail, because he was searching for a clue. Veering between hope and despair, he sought proof that his role in Madame de Souarcy’s life, however tenuous, had been preordained, and that it was perhaps not yet over.

He slowed his pace, overwhelmed by a sudden sense of shame. How presumptuous, how conceited of him to cast himself in the role of the heroic architect of some plan that far exceeded him!

It was then that he heard the muffled sound of steps approaching down the evil-smelling alley. He stopped dead in his tracks and listened, trying to see into the encircling gloom. His alarm quickly gave way to panic and his heart started pounding wildly. He was too weak to put up a fight or defend himself. He would flee – make a beeline for the small square surrounding Saint-Aignan Church. Despite the piercing cold, beads of sweat had formed on his brow and trickled down his pale cheeks. He took a deep breath to try to stifle the fear that was choking him. He must run, find the courage to move, but his legs refused to do his bidding. He froze like a rabbit staring into the open jaws of his predator. The tall figure approached him, unhurriedly now, slowly becoming visible in the nocturnal fog. Agnan could see the long cape flapping around a pair of ankles, the glint of a sword banging against a leg clad in a thick leather boot. His head swam and he stifled a dry sob. He fell back against the wall of a dwelling, powerless to cry out for help.

The figure came over to him, bent down and pulled him up by his armpits. The astonished Agnan was only just able to gasp:

‘You … knight.’

‘Stand up. What’s the matter with you?’

‘I thought … I thought you were a brigand …’

The other man gave a faint smile and said:

‘It was unwise of you to venture down such an alleyway at night.’

‘I … I wasn’t thinking properly.’

‘I will walk with you. Where were you headed?’

‘I was going to Saint-Aignan Church to offer a prayer and attend the service for Advent.’1

They walked in silence. Leone hesitated. He was searching for a way of formulating the question that had been plaguing him for weeks – for years. Agnan was wondering. Should he risk putting his mind at rest? Who was he to ask this knight, who both fascinated and terrified him, to satisfy his curiosity? His desire to know was too strong, however, and without daring to look the Hospitaller in the eye, he blurted out:

‘Was it you … Was it you, Monsieur, who …’

‘Who killed, or rather executed, Florin? I confess it was, and in doing so I demand your silence. I could see no other way. He left me no choice and, if I am honest, it is no doubt what I was hoping for.’

‘I will for ever be indebted to you for this … gesture, which I sense weighs heavily on you. That wicked creature’s disappearance has cast more darkness out of the world. We are too sorely in need of light to allow us to regret Florin’s passing.’

‘You mean his murder,’ corrected Leone. ‘It is charitable of you to employ the general, natural term “passing”, but this was true murder, Agnan. I stabbed the man knowing him to be unarmed. It would be dishonourable of me to try to shirk my responsibility.’

‘Vermin are not murdered, they are exterminated,’ the clerk exclaimed firmly.

‘With all due respect, it is not for you to judge. Only God can do that and I have already accepted His verdict.’ Leone sighed and went on: ‘What was Florin, a freak of nature? Or one of those challenges we encounter in life that serve to remind us how we veer between greatness and intolerable failure? Admittedly, had Madame de Souarcy’s life not been in danger, I am not sure that I would have soiled my hands with the inquisitor’s blood.’

Agnan looked at him for the first time since their strange meeting in the alleyway and pursed his lips anxiously:

‘Oh … You are right. My mind has been in turmoil these past few days …’ Suddenly, he threw caution to the wind, declaring: ‘Do you know Madame de Souarcy’s true identity, knight? I had … I had the overwhelming sensation that something not of this world was taking place …’

‘What nonsense! Unless I’m gravely mistaken, it is very much of this world.’

Silencing his doubts and fears, Leone now demanded in a voice trembling with such emotion as to be scarcely recognisable:

‘Did you see her blood?’

Agnan paused and, puzzled, asked:

‘I beg your pardon, knight?’

‘Did you … see Madame de Souarcy’s blood?’

This man, this saviour, this warrior could not possibly request such a detail in order to satisfy some ghoulish appetite. Accordingly, Agnan responded in a choked voice:

‘Oh, Monsieur, indeed I did, and I would have gladly shed every last drop of my own rather than dress her poor, tortured flesh. Florin … rubbed salt in her wounds to stop them from healing and to increase her pain. The fiend was unaware that I knew what the grey powder was that he kept in his gilded phial. I washed her lash wounds with water. I rubbed salve on her torn flesh until the brother at the infirmary took over from me.’

‘But did you see her blood?’ Leone insisted, trying hard to conceal his unease.

‘It streamed down her back and sides, turning her hair red. It covered my hands, knight, and I kissed them.’

‘What …’ The Hospitaller’s voice was so choked with emotion that he was scarcely able to finish the question: ‘What did it look like?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I mean … Was it like the blood of other victims? Did you notice anything peculiar about it?’

Agnan tried in vain to understand his escort’s persistent questioning. He stammered:

‘I’m a little lost … it was bright red, full of life … It wrenched my heart to see it turn the water a brilliant scarlet … I confess that I felt a sudden chill. Is this what you wanted to know?’

‘Yes.’ Leone nodded, clumsily trying to hide his sudden panic.

As he stood before the entrance to Saint-Aignan after taking his leave of Agnan and then walked back the way they had come, he was weighed down by an indescribable sorrow.