Читать книгу Lady Agnes Mystery Vol.2 - Андреа Жапп - Страница 25

Francesco de Leone scaled the steep abbey wall adjacent to Notre-Dame Church. His coat tails flapped around him like two great black wings.

Gripping the rough surface of the stones, the agile figure advanced a few feet. When he was a yard from the top, the joyous prospect of seeing his aunt brought a smile to his face, despite his exertions.

The sky, heavy with the promise of snow, was his unwitting helper, obscuring the moon; if anybody spotted him he would be hard pressed to justify his nocturnal presence in a Bernadine abbey.

He reached the top and lay flat on the broad stones for a moment, catching his breath before jumping down the other side. He hugged the wall of the abbey church, preferring to cut around the back and through the kitchen garden, where he was unlikely to bump into anyone at that time of night. All he needed to do then was slip between the side wall of the library and the scriptorium and he would reach his aunt’s chambers.

He hoisted himself up onto the ledge of one of the high, narrow windows in his aunt’s study and whistled to her as softly as possible. No reply. Could she be sleeping so soundly? He whistled again, louder. The window opened. A tall, heavily built woman stood facing him. Francesco’s surprise was shortlived. The woman urged:

‘Quick, knight! If one of my sisters sees you, all is lost.’

He jumped into the study, bewildered:

‘Who are you, my sister in Christ? Where is your Reverend Mother?’

The woman’s face became tense as she replied: ‘Annelette Beaupré, the apothecary nun.’

Francesco heaved a sigh of relief. Éleusie had mentioned their unexpected ally in one of her last letters. She had praised the woman’s intelligence and tenacity.

He grasped her hands affectionately and murmured:

‘There is no greater pleasure than the sight of a friendly face. Is she sleeping?’ he added, pointing at the closed door to Éleusie’s bedchamber, which was almost as Spartan as a prison cell.

The woman stared at him, her jaw clenched, her pale-blue eyes frozen in a grave expression. She pronounced each syllable:

‘She is dead. Dead, do you hear! Poisoned, before my very eyes.’

‘Pardon?’ he asked, incredulous, desperately trying to understand how the word ‘dead’ could be applied to his beloved aunt.

‘She collapsed in front of me and there was nothing I could do.’

‘No!’ he cried, shaking his head violently.

‘That fiend has struck again. It would appear she mixed poison into one of my remedies for lung infections. It was I who gave your aunt the potion that killed her … The traitor will pay. I have sworn it before God.’

It took a while for Francesco to grasp the full implication of her words, for their meaning to sink in. Dead, poisoned.

He pictured the lovely, graceful lady, hampered by her dress, laughing at her clumsy attempts to teach him how to play soule,37 a village sport that involved kicking, throwing or batting a leather ball into a circle in order to score points. He recalled her veils scented with mallow and lavender, and how he would sometimes bury his face in them before going to sleep. He could almost feel her cool slender hands stroking his brow as a child, as a youth and then as a grown man. Overwhelmed by grief, he staggered over to the long dark oak table and slumped on top of it, his head in his hands.

Annelette stood motionless, devastated by their common grief, incapable of offering a word or gesture of comfort. Grief required time and space in order for it not to be all-engulfing.

She watched him leap back to his feet. He brought his powerful fists down on the table again and again and again, causing it to judder each time. She heard him groan, and repeat in one long breath:

‘Accursed wretch, you’ll pay for this. Accursed wretch …’

After what seemed to Annelette like an eternity, his arms fell to his sides. When he turned to face her, he was unrecognisable. The blood dripped from his hands onto his surcoat, red upon red.

‘She went to God peacefully,’ the woman murmured.

‘I am sure she did, sister. But I mean to send that poisoner straight back where she came from, to hell.’

‘That is impossible, knight. What is more, you must leave here before daybreak. If I occasionally slip into my late Reverend Mother’s chambers, I have no right to be here and you even less so. I have kept her keys. So far nobody has dared ask me for them, discouraged by my legendary bad temper, which it is now in my interests to exaggerate. However, I will have to hand them over to the new Abbess. Have no fear. I will take care of the murderess. We haven’t much time. There are many things I need to explain to you. I must give you a letter, as well as the secret plans of the abbey, which you must hide in a safe place, outside these walls.’

For the next hour, under the feeble light of two sconce torches,38 Annelette told Francesco of the recent calamitous events at Clairets Abbey. Some of them he had already learnt from his aunt, others left him shocked and devastated.

‘… And the final wickedness of these monsters is to have denied us our right to grieve. We have no time, you see, we have no time to mourn the dear victims …’

The apothecary’s anxious voice trailed off, and she sighed.

He corrected her:

‘Unfortunately, I doubt that this will be their final wickedness.’

Francesco was stifling the panic that had threatened to overwhelm him since she announced the theft of the manuscripts and his notebook. For a split second he had been tempted to admit defeat, to lay down his arms and surrender, to stop everything and go back to Cyprus. To retreat for ever inside those forbidding citadel walls on that faraway island. To surround himself with memories of Éleusie and Henri de Beaufort, of his mother Claire, of his sweet sister Alexandrine … Like a beckoning whisper in his mind ravaged with grief.

‘No! Never give up. Fight to the death, and beyond.’

Éleusie? Claire? His aunt Clémence, whom he had scarcely known? Or the eldest, Philippine, the warrior so adored by her sisters? He could not say. He had never met Philippine. Éleusie, and Claire before her, had rarely spoken of her, as though the mere mention of her name evoked a magnificent past that only belonged to them. Why did it suddenly feel so urgent for him to remember every snatch of conversation, anything he had been able to glean about her, however insignificant?

Éleusie had remarked one day:

‘She knew that she was the strongest, the most single-minded, and she sacrificed herself for us.’

His aunt had soon changed her mind and clammed up, refusing to yield before Francesco’s insistence.

Whom had she been discussing with Claire in private that day when he had stood in the doorway to his mother’s chambers:

‘She is so like Philippine that my heart stopped when I first saw her.’

He was still a child then. The two women had gone silent when they saw him. He had been too polite to ply them with questions.

‘Knight? Knight?’

A hand squeezing his arm brought him back to the study where he had so eagerly wanted to be and which he now detested.

‘I know that my grief, however terrible, cannot compare to yours, knight. You have lost a mother. I have lost a sister and my only friend. One of our brightest guiding lights has been extinguished, and such lights are so rare that, when one goes out, it causes insufferable pain. But time is running out, knight, I implore you … it will soon be matins.⁺ Accompany me to the library so that I can give you the letter and the plans.’

He followed her, feeling as though each step required a superhuman effort. Annelette fetched the precious documents she had left on a shelf and handed them to him. He put the parchment into one of his surcoat pockets and turned the letter over in his hands. He pictured Éleusie behind her huge desk, her eyes lowered, forming the words that he was almost afraid to read. When? Had she sensed that her end was coming? Misinterpreting his hesitation, Annelette suggested in an unusually gentle voice:

‘Do you wish me to leave so that you may read it alone?’

He shook his head and declared:

‘Please stay, sister. Your presence is a solace to me. It is only that … that …’

‘She is so close that she surrounds us even though we cannot see her?’

He stared at her, amazed and moved by how easily she was able to read his thoughts. She added:

‘This is what happens with beautiful, powerful souls like hers. They stay with us and guide us through the darkness.’

He lowered his eyes and broke the seal on the letter, dated a few days before she was murdered. She had known, then.

My darling boy,

When you read these lines, I will no longer be there to kiss your brow. However, you may be sure that I shall continue to watch over you always. God will grant me this favour, I know.

It falls to me now to fill in some of the gaps in your knowledge of our lives – at least those parts of which I alone am aware. If it has taken me this long to make up my mind, it is because we feared that some of this information might lead you astray. Who do I mean by we? Four sisters: Clémence, Philippine, Claire and myself.

I need more time. I sense that any moment now she will engulf me. Who? The murderess, the shadow.

The lives I am about to describe to you are lives full of calculation, strategies and subterfuge. They are also lives full of love, trust, collaboration and self-sacrifice. Have no illusions about me. I am the most mediocre, the most timorous member of this blood-and-soul sisterhood. Curiously, I survived the other three, who were far better equipped to continue. I have wondered over this selection and must admit that I have never understood it.

Before beginning these painful confessions, I want to tell you again how much I have loved you, how much I still love you and will love you for all eternity. Your addition to the happy couple that Henri and I formed was a blessing, despite the terrible damage left by the deaths of Claire and your little sister, Alexandrine. You were our ray of sunshine, our hope. You were my last reason for living. You know that Claire has always remained close to my heart. And yet God knows how much I loved being called Mother, how hard it was for me sometimes to remember that I was only your second mother.

Four sisters, four women, then, including the lovingly obstinate Philippine. Perhaps you were surprised that we never spoke of her, that I was so evasive when you asked about the aunt you had never known. Do you remember how I used to divert your attention with a book, a tree, another story? It was so difficult for me, for us, to lie to you that we preferred evasion …

The last two letters were faint, as though Éleusie had paused before continuing. The first letter of the next word was a splodge, suggesting that she had thrust her quill too hastily into the inkhorn.

… A jumble of confused images comes flooding back to me. Philippine, the magnificent chimera. She was breathtakingly beautiful. You might have difficulty believing that we all, even your mother, whom heaven had blessed with such an abun- dance of mental and physical attributes, considered Philippine a miracle. Her intelligence was equalled only by her beauty, her goodness and her compassion. The angels vied with one another to bestow gifts upon her at birth. Ah … Philippine’s laughter. What I wouldn’t give for the joy of hearing it once more. She had such an easy smile. And yet behind the cheerful nature that lit up the lives of all who knew her lay an exceptionally strong, brave and single-minded woman. Philippine feared nothing and no one but God. I have made one fundamental omission in this otherwise faithful portrait. Like your mother, Claire, though to a lesser degree, Philippine was endowed with the gift of second sight and, although she never spoke of it, unlike me she did not suppress it. I was terrified by my visions, and like a coward I tried to stifle them. Clémence was spared them, although her extreme sensibility occasionally allowed her to envisage events and people as keenly as we did. Claire explored them. Philippine followed them. To the very end.

Thus it was neither wantonness nor an unfortunate accident, still less a shameful sin, when that man – of whom I know nothing – crossed her path and she knew that he must father her child.

As you can imagine we kept her pregnancy a secret. She spent half of it in Italy with your mother and the other half with us in Normandy.

My eyes are moist with tears, my darling boy, for the end is nigh: the end of this letter, which I can picture you reading, Philippine’s end and my own. The midwife declared that it was one of the most terrible births she had ever witnessed. Philippine began haemorrhaging and was confined to her bed. No amount of prayer, remedies or tears helped. I still see her big grey-blue eyes staring out of her beautiful face, her lips dry from fever. One morning I had fallen asleep while I watched over her, and she squeezed my hand to waken me. She declared joyously: ‘Stop your grieving, my dear. I am happy. This was how it had to be. I was ready. Remember me in your heart, gentle sister. Take care of my baby. She is more important than any of us.’ She smiled and puckered her lips in a last kiss before her head fell back. I remained with her until just after terce.+

The child’s hungry cries wrenched me from the yawning yet welcoming abyss into which I was spiralling. Certainly the need to watch over Agnès, the chosen lamb, was what enabled me to overcome my searing grief.

Agnès. Yes, you read correctly. Agnès de Souarcy is your first cousin on your mother’s side, the daughter of Philippine and an unknown man …

Stunned by these revelations, Francesco glanced up at Annelette. The apothecary nun looked back at him. He too had the impression that he was falling into a bottomless crevasse as he tried desperately to process his thoughts.

… It was Claire who decided straight away that Clémence should look after her. With hindsight, I wonder whether your mother had not already foreseen her own death and your coming to us. Baron de Larnay was a dullard and a scoundrel. He had sired so many bastards that one more was unlikely to come as any surprise. We took advantage of the fact that he had, indeed, left Clémence’s maid with child. The poor girl was languishing at one of the farms on the estate, waiting – as was the custom, in order to spare the fornicating nobles any discomfiture – for her delivery, which arrived in the form of a miscarriage. Clémence managed to persuade her to pass Agnès off as her child. I do not know whether the maid accepted with good grace. My dear sister Clémence was a firm-handed woman, and was able when necessary to handle dangerous situations. It surprised everybody how soon Baron de Larnay developed a fondness for the little bastard girl. It was our role to protect and educate her. Again it was Clémence who broke down the baron’s resistance so that years later, when Agnès reached adolescence, he recognised her as his daughter. She cleverly threatened her husband with the state of his soul, already overburdened with sin. The twisted desire Eudes de Larnay felt, and still feels, towards Agnès is less blameworthy because she is only his cousin. However, it was out of the question that he bed her, as he had so many others, at the risk of producing another specimen of their delinquent race.

The rest you know, my darling boy, and I can imagine your surprise. I trust, I hope, that you are not angry with me for having kept you for so long in ignorance. Do not think it a feeble excuse when I say that Claire, Philippine and Clémence were adamant that the secret should not be divulged unless there was a danger that it would die out. This is now the case. I am going to die soon and join my beloved ghosts who have accompanied me during these long years. I already miss you dreadfully, my sweet angel, and yet I rejoice in seeing them again. Amen.

Live, my brave boy. Live and fight on, I beseech you.

Your loving mother for all eternity.

Francesco de Leone was stunned. How could they have kept the truth from him for so long? Why? Curiously, discovering his blood tie with Madame de Souarcy made him feel no closer to her. Not now. And then it struck him. This was exactly what the four sisters had wanted, or at least the three instigators of the deception. It was not his cousin Agnès whom he must defend and protect from and for the sake of everybody, but the key designated by a prophetic birth chart. His body relaxed as he exhaled lengthily. The tightness he had been feeling in his chest for the past few minutes abated. They had been right. The circle was closing. Agnès belonged to their family, a family that had safeguarded the quest for generations. Born of a woman who had chosen motherhood outside the sacred bonds of marriage, no doubt because she had followed the sign that led her to the man who must father her child. A girl.

He looked up at the apothecary who was staring anxiously at him.

‘All is well, sister,’ he reassured her.

He walked over to the little sconce torch she was holding and placed a corner of the letter over the flame. They watched in silence as the chiffon paper slowly blackened. Francesco kept hold of it until he felt the flickering flame scorch his fingers.

‘You must leave here soon, knight,’ Annelette Beaupré urged.

‘I realise that. I won’t even have the consolation of spending a few moments at the resting place of my second mother.’

The apothecary nodded before adding:

‘She is buried in the nave of the abbey church of Notre-Dame, beside her predecessors.’

‘Do you know … I enjoyed the immense good fortune of having two wonderful mothers whom I loved equally.’ Aware that time was running short and that the dormitories would soon be stirring in readiness for the first service of the day, he added: ‘The manuscripts … They must be found. They must not leave Clairets.’

She sighed uneasily as she said:

‘I can ensure that they don’t for the moment, brother. I have firmly insisted that Madame de Beaufort’s final orders should be carried out to the letter, but … if the newly appointed Abbess is …’

‘One of them,’ he finished her sentence. ‘And I am sure she will be. My aunt was murdered so that she could be replaced by one of their accomplices. I fear that her arrival at Clairets is imminent. Therefore we have very little time. If you find the manuscripts, destroy the treatise on necromancy. I regret not having already done so.’