Читать книгу Lady Agnes Mystery Vol.2 - Андреа Жапп - Страница 9

The camerlingo Honorius Benedetti’s thin lips were white with rage. He had the repulsive feeling that his flesh was gradually being eaten away, that his skin was sticking to his cheekbones. He raised his hand to his nose and smelt it to see whether the odour he had suddenly perceived was really that of his decaying body or simply a distressing illusion. All he could smell was the faint scent of rosewater from his morning ablutions.

They had the upper hand. Once again they had the upper hand. The others. A sudden feeling of dizziness made him close his eyes. How could it be? Benedetti was not afraid of facing the terrible possibility that he had been mistaken all along. That God was protecting his enemies in order to show him how wrong he had been all these years. On the contrary, the camerlingo had only himself to blame for hiring such incompetent henchmen. Any spiritual doubts he might have had were quashed by his absolute conviction that man could not be left to his own devices; that the evil in him would triumph if he were not compelled to be good, because sinning is easier and above all more pleasurable. What a fool he had been to have employed the services of that spectre! As for the Grand Inquisitor, that Nicolas Florin, whom he had learnt had been murdered at Alençon, Aude de Neyrat had been absolutely right. It was madness to have entrusted the execution of such a plan to resentment, envy and bloodthirstiness.

Agnès de Souarcy had escaped from the ruthless clutches of the Inquisition* against all the odds.

Benedetti plunged the tip of the stiletto knife he used as a letter opener into his magnificent hardwood desk. He would pray for the eternal damnation of Nicolas Florin’s soul. Although, in reality, the man had no need of his help in order to be condemned to the eternal torments of the damned.

He tugged hard on the braided bell rope that connected his study to an usher’s tiny bureau. The man appeared almost instantly in the tall doorway.

‘Your Eminence,’ he burbled submissively, lowering his head.

‘Has my lady visitor arrived yet?’

‘This very instant, Your Eminence.’

‘Well! Don’t just stand there, show her in!’ shouted the camerlingo.

The other man stifled a look of dismay. He didn’t recall ever having seen the prelate display even a hint of annoyance. Indeed, his unruffled, almost cheerful, exterior was what made people fear him all the more. They knew that the guillotine could fall on any one of their necks without prior warning. Benedetti manipulated this fear and used it to his advantage.

The elegant, golden-haired vision, clad from head to toe in crimson, walked in, preceded by a heady aroma of musk and iris.

Benedetti’s tense expression immediately slackened.

‘Aude, my dearest lady … You are like a salve that heals all my troubles. Pray, take a seat. May I offer you a glass of fine wine from the foothills of Mount Vesuvius?’

Aude lifted the delicate veil concealing a face so stunningly beautiful that it attracted every gaze.

‘Ah … the tears of Christ, its smoothness is renowned.’

‘The Lacrima Christi, yes.’

‘And offered by you … it is undoubtedly on a par with receiving absolution,’ she said teasingly.

He smiled as he filled two tall glasses. He sometimes felt he knew this woman as well as if she were his own creation. A single facet of this piece of perfection with emerald-green eyes, a tiny smiling mouth and a ruthless intelligence remained for ever a mystery to him. Did she really have no desire for atonement or was she hiding a festering wound of remorse beneath her elegant exterior? Benedetti had lived with his own wound for so long he had the impression that it was his most faithful, cruel companion. It would suppurate during the night, tormenting him ceaselessly, tearing his soul apart until dawn.

They took a few sips in silence before Honorius admitted:

‘You were right, my dear. Madame de Souarcy is free, cleared of all suspicion.’

‘Your henchmen failed.’

‘One of them – the Grand Inquisitor – paid with his life.’

‘That is something, at least. I do find such people distasteful,’ Aude remarked casually.

‘They are useful to us.’

‘Even henchmen must be chosen wisely. So, the little bastard noblewoman has trumped the most powerful arm of the Church? Well, that’s what I’d call a humiliating defeat!’

‘If it were only a question of wounded pride, I could live with it. Regrettably, I see in it the nefarious work of my enemies and proof of their mounting strength. It also shows me that Madame de Souarcy is extremely important to them. She must die, and quickly … That woman must die … As for her shadow, that little rascal who, according to my spies, is fiercely loyal to her, he must share the same fate.’ He closed his eyes and added in a whisper: ‘May God bless and receive them.’

‘She … They will die. I will see to it.’

Aude de Neyrat paused and drank the contents of her glass unhurriedly. For once she allowed her worst memories to flood back.

Aude was orphaned at a young age and placed under the tutelage of an uncle. The old scoundrel had been quick to confuse family duty with the droit de seigneur. Admittedly not for long, for the toothless scoundrel had died an agonisingly painful drawn-out death – exactly as his ward had envisaged. She had stood over him devotedly, dabbing his perspiring face with a cloth impregnated with poison. At the tender age of twelve Aude had discovered that she had a flair for poison, murder and deceit equalled only by her beauty and brains. She would soon put her precious talents to work in order to inherit two substantial bequests – one of them from an elderly husband. However, she made the mistake of sparing the husband’s very young nephew; the boy was so delightful and entertaining that Aude hadn’t the heart to send him to an early grave – a serious mistake that would nearly cost her her life. The sweet young collateral heir proved to be every bit as venal as his young aunt by marriage. He alerted the chief bailiff of Auxerre’s men to the misfortune that appeared to have befallen all of Madame de Neyrat’s relatives, and demanded his inheritance. Aude was arrested. A horde of treacherous rats immediately came out of the woodwork to accuse her of a range of sins from poisoning to fornicating with demons. Honorius Benedetti, a simple bishop at the time, was passing through the town during her trial. Madame de Neyrat’s striking beauty had bowled him over. He had made sure he took part in her questioning.

Aude recalled every last detail of their first encounter in the vaulted room at the chateau in Auxerre. Despite the chill of those thick stone walls, Benedetti was perspiring and fanning himself with an elegant fan made of fine strips of mother of pearl, a gift from a lady in Jumièges long ago, he had explained with a knowing smile. The prelate standing before her was slim and small. He had graceful, slender, well-manicured hands; feminine hands. He had urged her to confess her sins. And yet something in his manner had suggested to the young woman that she should do the exact opposite. Aude had confessed nothing and, much to the delight of Honorius – himself a past master at the art of sophistry, had ensnared her judges in a web of lies and deceit. She learnt later that he had done everything in his power to clear her of the serious charges hanging over her, and had even accused the beleaguered nephew of aggravated perjury. The youth, alarmed by the bishop’s implicit threats, had retracted his accusation and had begged forgiveness of his dear aunt, whom he confessed to having seriously misjudged. One night, one remarkable and inevitable night, Benedetti had joined her at the town house she had inherited from her deceased husband. Between the sheets, dishevelled by their delightful folly, they had discovered that they were two of a kind, equal in strength. Aude had sensed that she was Honorius’s only carnal transgression since taking his vows. In the morning when he had taken his leave of her, she had known – without needing to suggest it tactfully herself – that he would not return. Closing his eyes and smiling, he had kissed her hand and murmured:

‘I thank you for this sublime night, Madame, for I do not sense in any way that it was compensation for having taken care of your trial. Thank you equally for having provided me with a few hours of bitter regret and sweet memories.’

A pox on memories.

Aude de Neyrat went on, intrigued:

‘My dear friend … Were you really such a sentimentalist that first time we met, when you saved my life?’

‘A sentimentalist? Why else would I have saved you when I knew you to be guilty?’

‘Because it amused you and perhaps because you desired me a little?’

‘All of those things at once. And because you moved me …’

‘I moved you?’

‘You stood alone against all those men, most of them hypocrites. You were fearless, and yet they would have crushed you. In reality, the choice was a simple one. I could fight on your side, or give them free rein and allow mediocrity to triumph over brilliance. I made my choice.’

‘That is undoubtedly the most wonderful compliment I am ever likely to receive and I thank you for it,’ she avowed, with unusual earnestness. ‘And now I must prepare for my trip if I wish to arrive post haste in the charming county of Perche.’

‘You will be stopping off in Chartres on the way, my dear.’

He reached into a drawer and retrieved a fat purse and a few sheets of vellum covered in his small, nervous scrawl.

‘Here is enough money to cover your immediate needs, as well as a few recommendations, instructions, names and addresses. I implore you, Aude, do not fail me …’

‘I don’t recall ever having failed … at anything. We shall meet again very soon, my friend, to celebrate your success.’

A fresh breeze had risen in Saint Peter’s Square that lifted her veil like a wing. Aude de Neyrat walked hurriedly. Ever since Benedetti had evoked his emotion during their first meeting, she had been seized by a potent desire – unexpected and inopportune, given the number of arrangements she must make before her imminent departure. What of it! She would do better to satisfy her hunger as quickly as possible without another thought, and Aude knew how.

She made her way towards Ponte Sant’Angelo, which spanned the river Tiber. Dusk already provided her with some cover. She entered a maze of streets which, though scarcely squalid, were certainly no place for a lady of her position to be wandering at any time of the day or night. The early evening breeze dispersed a little the suffocating stench of humanity, of dirt and detritus that seemed to emanate from the rows of hovels. A man approached her. She looked him up and down. He was ugly, dirty and too old. As for his rotten teeth, they disgusted her. She waved him away. On the other hand, the lithe young figure she noticed loitering next to the stairs leading down to the seedy Bianca Donna tavern took her fancy. Aude drew level with him. He was handsome, very handsome indeed. He looked not yet twenty. He stared at her boldly and paid her a crude compliment.

Aude retorted in perfect Italian:

‘Please don’t speak. You will ruin my pleasure.’ She pulled two shiny coins out of her purse and said: ‘You will do exactly as I say. No more, no less.’

Suddenly sobered, the young man pocketed the money and nodded.

Aude was exhausted when she rose from the bed in the tiny room at the house of ill repute masquerading as a tavern. The man’s smell on her skin still excited her, but she would soon find it intolerable. A mallow and lavender bath would wash it away. He lay, asleep, and she looked at him properly for the first time. What a handsome specimen he was with his swarthy olive skin and thick hair descending from his sternum to end in a point at his pubis. As she had hoped, he had been forceful and brutish. Aude would not deny that her taste for virile men was born of the satisfaction she took in bringing them to heel. It was no doubt necessary to her pleasure. And what of it! Who cared about these witless, charmless oafs who died every day like flies?

A voice startled her:

‘That was … You ladies are a sight better than any whores or slatterns. You could teach them a thing or two – those whores, I mean.’

The stench was already becoming unbearable. She slipped into her dress and gestured for him to lace up the back. He stood up and tried to run his tongue along her neck then thrust his sex against her. She turned and glared at him. He grumbled:

‘All right …’ His sulking face suddenly broke into a grin. ‘If I’d known … when I saw you going into the Pope’s palace … What a coincidence, eh? I was there. I saw you. It’s not often you see a lady go in there. They say that whores sometimes dress up as ladies and slip in, but that mostly it’s spies. Are you a spy, then? You’ve certainly got what it takes.’

‘What a pity,’ muttered Aude under her breath, in French this time, and, turning, gave him a provocative smile.

‘Ah, I knew you wanted more. It’s not every day you meet a stud like me!’ He pulled her roughly, pressing his body tightly against hers. She manoeuvred him over to the straw mattress.

The young man’s eyes opened wide and his mouth gaped as though he were trying to cry out. A red stream coloured his teeth before running down his chin. Aude pushed the dagger in deeper. He collapsed face down on the floor. She bent down to pull the blade from his back and leapt aside, but not quickly enough. A jet of blood spurted over her dress. She let out a sigh of relief. Fortune had smiled on her – red on crimson wouldn’t show. She paused, a look of disgust on her face, as she waited for the man’s body to stop twitching. Sweet Lord, how she detested watching death at work, even when she was its agent.