Читать книгу Lady Agnes Mystery Vol.2 - Андреа Жапп - Страница 16

A cold, damp wind had risen and was gusting into the throats of the two intrepid travellers, who were reckless enough to have ventured out as night began encroaching upon the remains of the day.

Agnès gripped Clément tightly with one arm while with the other she controlled Églantine, the powerful grey-black Perche14 mare. The horse stood higher than a man, at over fifteen hands, evidence of the breed having been crossed with stallions from Boulogne several centuries earlier. These powerful dray horses, bred for their strength and stamina, could carry a French knight to the Holy Land, keep up a slow trot and hurdle obstacles. But they tired easily at a gallop and consequently the journey from Manoir de Souarcy had been a slow one.

Agnès patted the animal’s powerful neck, praising her:

‘Good girl, Églantine. We’re here.’

The mare came to a halt and waited patiently as Clément slid down her foreleg to the ground and Agnès jumped from her side-saddle, equipped only with one left stirrup. As she landed, her feet sank into the reddish mire. She winced and the young boy enquired in a concerned voice:

‘The wounds that fiend inflicted on you aren’t yet healed, are they, Madame?’

‘Besides the scars left by the lash, I bear scarcely any trace of them, thanks to Agnan’s kind attentions, and to the monks who took turns nursing me, but especially to the well-nigh magical ointment sent to me by my Lord d’Authon’s physician, your beloved Joseph. However, I do occasionally get twinges in damp weather. But don’t worry, the worst is behind me.’

The young woman lifted the front of her skirts and walked forward a few paces. She gave a nervous sigh as she cast her eye over her bleak inheritance. A bed of angry nettles had colonised the ten acres of arid land. No other plant was tenacious enough to grow there. The approaching darkness only added to the desolation of the place, which was battered by incessant winds and rain.

The sound of Clément’s breathing distracted her from these depressing thoughts. The young boy was gasping, as if he’d been running. He murmured:

‘Now that we’re here, I feel afraid. Afraid that I’m mistaken, that my intuition is only a fantasy.’

Clément’s discomfort roused Agnès, who stood up straight and declared in an almost scathing tone:

‘Well, we’re here now, and it’s too late to start worrying. Let’s see if your excellent Joseph de Bologne’s stone can tell us whether this barren soil contains any iron ore.’

‘Monsieur Joseph showed me how to carry out a simple experiment using this remarkable instrument. He asked me to treat it with care for it is rare and priceless, and to keep it a secret as a precaution.’

‘I see. And you refer to this big lump of rough-hewn stone as an “instrument”!’

‘Yes. As I already explained to you, it comes from Magnesia, in Asia Minor. The history of this stone, known as magnetite, is a troubled one. Five thousand years ago, a shepherd by the name of Magnès15 left his flock grazing below while he climbed onto a boulder to watch over it. The metal tip of his crook appeared to stick to the rock, and when he let go it remained upright. He was terrified and thought it had been bewitched. Even Lucretius and Pliny the Elder attributed magical powers to the stone.16 A dozen years ago, my mentor Joseph came across a letter drafted by a man called Peter Peregrinus17 detailing everything that was known about magnetite yet still unknown in our kingdoms.18 According to Monsieur Joseph there is nothing magical about the stone’s properties; it is a fascinating scientific phenomenon we have yet to comprehend.’

Agnès listened attentively to the explanation then summed up:

‘So, if the crook stayed upright on the boulder, it follows that the stone … somehow fastened itself to the metal?’

He smiled, pleased at rediscovering her agile mind.

‘Yes, Madame, it attracts metal.’

‘I’m beginning to share your admiration for this Joseph whom I’ve never met. Hurry, it will soon be dark and I want to see this prodigious stone at work. Églantine knows the way home, and my short sword will dissuade any young brigand, but I would prefer to be home before nightfall. What must I do to help you?’

Clément replied enigmatically:

‘Nothing, Madame, just watch over me as you have always done.’

She had the almost painful feeling that these words – unrelated to the experiment the young boy was about to carry out – summed up more clearly than any lengthy exposition what their life would be like from then on. They were alone, a woman and a young girl disguised as a boy for her own protection, for both their protection, and yet they were united by a love that was pure and therein lay their strength. Agnès had been given further proof of this when a hideous vision of death had approached her in her sinister dungeon at the Inquisition headquarters in Alençon. How much did Clémence/Clément, still so young, really grasp of this love, of the bond between them? And she, the Dame de Souarcy, what more did she know of it besides her own certainties?

‘And as I always will. Even at the risk of my own life,’ she whispered softly.

Clément looked up at her with his blue-green eyes and smiled as he nodded. Then, ending this stirring moment that was so intense that words had become superfluous, he declared with forced cheer:

‘I will perform the experiment flat on my stomach.’

He rummaged in his satchel and pulled out two long strips of hessian, which he wrapped around his hands and forearms before walking over to the mass of blackish nettles.

‘These horrid weeds sting even when they’re frozen.’

‘They provide an invaluable source of compost.’

‘Whose formula was brought back by the Knights Templar. But that doesn’t stop them prickling like the devil.’

The mention of the military order brought back the memory of the mysterious Knight Hospitaller. Agnès called out to Clément as he walked away towards the carpet of nettles:

‘What do you know about the knight Francesco de Leone?’

‘Very little, in truth. I first heard his name when the good Agnan mentioned him the day the Comte and I arrived in Alençon. Then I learnt from you that he is the nephew and adopted son of the Abbess of Clairets, Éleusie de Beaufort. But I’d wager my life he killed that fiend Nicolas Florin. I give no credit to the story of a drunken stranger having stabbed the Grand Inquisitor, your tormentor, to death.’ He added in a sharp, almost angry voice: ‘Let me tell you, Madame, that he pre-empted us. My Lord Artus d’Authon would have given him no quarter. And neither would I.’

Agnès suppressed a smile:

‘I have no doubts as to your courage. You are my brave defenders.’

Clément knelt on the ground and continued:

‘Going back to the subject of Francesco de Leone, I’ve never met the man, but I’m grateful to him for saving your life, even though he prevented us from doing so. I wonder …’

Clément paused suddenly as he pushed aside a mass of nettles with his swaddled arm. One question among many had been plaguing him since Agnès’s return, since her puzzled description of the Knight Hospitaller’s visit.

As Clément had sat listening that night at the foot of her bed, the coincidence had seemed so striking that it had made him think. Was this Francesco de Leone the second author of Eustache de Rioux’s journal? Having never confessed to his lady about the discovery of the secret library at Clairets, Clément refrained from any comment that would instantly have aroused Agnès’s suspicions. He agonised over this petty omission, the white lie of a child afraid of being scolded, since he now considered it a dangerous deception. In addition, he had the vague impression that Agnès was a piece in a vast game of chess – the scale of which he was unable to determine. Both he and Agnès had soon realised that Eudes de Larnay, his lady’s half-brother and overlord, was himself being manipulated by a far more powerful and formidable player – a far more ruthless one too. Artus d’Authon had, by a process of elimination, traced their enemy to the Vatican – a Vatican without a pope. In reality, Clément felt uneasy about the chain of events: Agnès had fallen into the hands of the Inquisition and the Knight Hospitaller appeared from nowhere. The wicked inquisitor met a timely death at the hands of an implausible debauchee. The judgement of God was invoked and Agnès was saved. The Knight Hospitaller dissolved into thin air, like a ghost. Clément then learnt that Leone was none other than the adored nephew and adopted son of the Abbess, guardian of the secret library at Clairets where he had discovered a journal belonging to two Knights Hospitaller. The journal, devoted to a ‘sublime’ quest, contained extraordinary astronomical discoveries as well as two birth charts, one of which fell under the sign of Capricorn. Agnès was born on 25 December. Could one of the charts concern her? And what of the other chart? The pieces were being set up, and he still hadn’t understood which game was being played. A game of chess, yes.

‘What were you going to say?’

Dusk obscured the look of unease on the boy’s face. The young woman was about to repeat her question when Clément cried out:

‘Madame, Madame … Look! It’s a miracle!’

Agnès ran over to him. He was kneeling on the ground and holding up a piece of stone flecked with reddish soil. She all but snatched it from him, turning it over in her hands, examining it from all sides, dumbfounded, stifling her relief, the violent joy welling up inside her. She prodded the tiny specks of clay that appeared to cling to the rough surface of the magnetite. The infinitesimal pull, their resistance to her attempts to dislodge them, and the way they clung on again the moment she took her finger away brought tears to Agnès’s eyes.

Clément stammered with emotion:

‘… Ah … The stone from Magnesia attracts the soil! This is the proof, the scientific proof that the soil is rich in iron! It’s a mine, Madame. Your barren La Haute-Gravière is an iron-ore mine and you will have the right to exploit it until you die.’

Agnès understood the cutting reference to Mathilde, whose cruelty and betrayal had haunted her for weeks. Her daughter would never enjoy the riches of La Haute-Gravière – if riches they were, and Agnès was convinced of it – not while her mother was still alive, unless she remarried. And neither would Eudes de Larnay. God had given her the passive means with which to avenge herself on her half-brother. She addressed a silent prayer to Clémence, to the voices, the benevolent shades that had helped her during her imprisonment.

She fought the urge to fall to her knees on the soil she had so long despised, loathed, and beg its forgiveness, pay homage to its endurance. No doubt had she been alone she would have given in to this strange act of contrition. Instead, she bent down, dug her fingers into the earth she had so hated, and, grasping two muddy handfuls of clay, lifted them to her lips. She kissed the soil, inhaling the bitter metallic odour as if it were her life blood.

When she opened her eyes, Clément was staring up at her, a small, poignant figure in the middle of the unremitting bleakness.

‘Are you all right, Madame?’

‘Yes … dear Clément, I am feeling better, and it is a sensation I had long forgotten. I’m just a little overcome … And I’m ravenous!’ she added.

‘You’re getting your health back, then. Let us leave, Madame. Night is falling.’

Agnès led Églantine over to a tree stump, which she used to help her mount the huge mare more easily and less painfully. She called to Clément. The youth mounted in turn and let out a sigh as he slumped against her.

They headed for home, the animal keeping up a steady speed, spurred on by the prospect of the stable. Agnès thought aloud:

‘Let us suppose – for I still feel it is too good to be true – that La Haute-Gravière really does contain iron ore. And, speculating further, let us assume that the mine is rich …’ She trembled with nervous excitement and whispered: ‘What would we do with it? I mean how do we extract the ore? How do we turn it into knives, swords and coulters?’19

‘Monsieur Joseph once again comes to our aid. Believe me that man knows everything – he even knows about the laws governing mining! We’ll need large amounts of fuel, which your forests will supply. We’ll also need miners, but we can find those among your serfs and labourers,20 providing you respect the law that prohibits mining and conversion during harvest time because it would be detrimental to the wellbeing of the soil and the subsistence of your serfs.’21

‘Do such laws exist?’

‘They do, Madame, and with good reason.’

‘And how in heaven’s name do you know all this?’

‘Master Joseph told me.’

‘Is your Joseph a lawyer too?’

‘He is everything, Madame. He insists that to be versed in the laws of the land that gives you refuge is to avoid unwelcome problems.’

‘Then he is a wise man.’

Clément went on to list the drawbacks:

‘We will also need a river with enough water to drive the mill that will work the bellows and allow us to cool the beaten metal. However, we have no mill or powerful watercourse … But there are plenty nearby, and with our drays and oxen we can carry the ore to one of them in exchange for a fee and a percentage of our profits, which we will need to negotiate down to the last penny.’

‘You have an answer to everything, my clever Clément,’ Agnès said, smiling and stroking his hair.

Another thought occurred to her, which dampened her enthusiasm and she added:

‘I tremble with rage at being forced to hand over half of all the extracted ore to that scoundrel Eudes, a quarter of which he must pass on to his overlord, the Comte d’Authon.’

As she spoke she was struck by the sudden realisation that Eudes knew about the mine, or suspected its existence. He had not plotted her arrest by the Inquisition only out of resentment and frustrated desire. He had not turned Mathilde against her out of simple revenge. He wanted the iron ore. If Agnès had been found guilty of heresy or even complicity to commit heresy, she would have been stripped of her dower, which Mathilde would then have stood to inherit. Eudes needed only to shower the girl with dresses and jewellery – at no cost to himself since they had all belonged to his dead wife, dear Apolline. Unless he considered it more expeditious to shut the young woman away in a nunnery once he had become her legal guardian.

Agnès felt choked with resentment. She was surprised by her own reaction. Had Eudes’s debauchery and perversity – however shameful – excused his actions in her eyes? Perhaps. Perhaps she had excused Eudes in part because she saw in them a sign of mental derangement. In contrast, money, the lure of profit, all the plotting in order to lay his hands on his widowed half-sister’s dower revealed that only his rotten, scheming soul was to blame.

After a few moments’ silence, Clément remarked in a voice too casual to be innocent:

‘I see no way around that – at least while you remain Lord d’Authon’s under-vassal.’

Agnès was not fooled:

‘You seem very keen to see me wed. Do you wish to be rid of me? In any event … It is not the custom for a lady to propose marriage.’

She heard him giggle, and then:

‘Yes, but it is customary for her to make it known that she favours such a union, especially when the gentleman in question eagerly awaits a sign … or should I say despairs of ever receiving such a sign.’

‘You little rascal!’ laughed Agnès, thankful for this moment of gaiety that pushed back the shadows hanging over them.

‘Can she make it known?’ continued Clément.

‘Yes.’

‘Without displeasure?’

‘Yes.’

‘In that case with pleasure?’

Agnès could no longer contain her hilarity and pretended to chide him:

‘Stop it this instant! What are you making me say? I’m not amused,’ she spluttered. ‘I’m choking with embarrassment. That’s enough, you mischievous child, let us speak no more of it!’

Clément’s joy at having brought a smile to his lady’s face was short-lived. He must tell her the truth about his discoveries in the secret library at Clairets. He could no longer delay his confession.