Читать книгу Lady Agnes Mystery Vol.2 - Андреа Жапп - Страница 13

Artus d’Authon had been in a state of extreme nervous tension for the past two weeks. This man who was known to all as even-tempered – though in particular to the household servants, who were better placed than anybody to know their master – would fly off the handle over the slightest misdemeanour, blowing up out of all proportion things that would normally have made him laugh.

The humble folk attached to the chateau kept a low profile, remaining as quiet and unobtrusive as possible. He had scolded a laundry woman for a crease in an undershirt, and one of the cooks thought his end had come when he overspiced the hippocras. As for the farrier, Artus had accused him of mistreating his beloved Ogier and pushed him roughly against the forge wall simply because the horse had shaken its mane when the man approached.

Everybody was concerned. The older servants remembered with dismay the Comte’s terrifying grief when his son and sole heir, Gauzelin, had died; they had seen murder written in their master’s smouldering brown eyes and in his every gesture. Some even went as far as to speak to Ronan, for whom their master felt a special attachment that was unusual for this undemonstrative man. The old man had known the Comte since he was born, and had virtually brought him up. He alone had dared approach Artus while he was mourning the loss of his son. Now they came to Ronan again to ask if he knew anything, if he could offer some explanation perhaps. Ronan had replied that their master was simply suffering from an attack of spleen and assured them it would pass.

*

Ronan was aware of what was eating away at the Comte, robbing him of the desire to eat, drink, even to sleep: Madame – for this was what he called the woman he knew was no ordinary lady. Ronan had never met her, but he knew of her from young Clément’s devotion and his terror when his mistress was imprisoned, from Artus’s peaks of joy and sadness, from the chief bailiff Monge de Brineux’s flattering remarks, and even from the Comte’s physician Joseph de Bologne’s enquiries about her health.

Ronan knocked on the door of the little rotunda library which the Comte used as a study. A gruff, irritable voice rang out:

‘What is it now? Must I flee to the middle of a desert in order to enjoy some peace around here?’

The faithful servant entered the room, pretending not to have noticed Artus’s foul mood:

‘The cook begs to know your requirements for supper. You have lost weight, my lord. Your breeches, even your chausses are loose on you.’

‘I’m not hungry and I don’t want any supper. The man is beginning to annoy me. And so are you, fussing over me like an old mother hen.’

Ronan lowered his head in silence.

Artus could have kicked himself. What sort of a brainless oaf was he, abusing one of the few people who formed a link in his life, a link to his past, one of the few people he truly loved? He sighed with frustration, and mumbled:

‘I’ve always had a special fondness for mother hens. I find the way they fuss over their own and other hens’ chicks utterly charming. However … I am not in the mood for company.’

Ronan looked up at the man whom he would always consider his ‘little boy’ and responded to Artus’s veiled excuses with a shy smile.

‘My Lord Monge de Brineux doesn’t understand your desire for solitude. Perhaps a talk with your faithful friend might …’

‘Brineux wouldn’t understand,’ thundered the Comte. ‘And, besides, how could I explain to him what I myself am at a loss to comprehend. God’s wounds! When I think that she refused my hospitality, which was entirely justified after her ordeal in that dungeon! It couldn’t possibly have given rise to any gossip.’

Ronan paused, aware that he was treading on dangerous ground, and then, out of love and respect for this steadfast, courageous, yet at times exasperatingly morose man, he ventured:

‘Unlike your hospitality, gossip needn’t be legitimate in order to spread. I expect Madame’s attention was required by various tasks at Manoir de Souarcy. I expect a sudden and open … association with Authon would not seem proper to a lady of her standing and distinction. I expect …’

‘Why do you all insist upon calling her “Madame” as if she were the only one,’ Artus interrupted, at once puzzled and irritated.

‘Isn’t she, my lord?’

‘In whose eyes?’

‘In yours and, as a member of your entourage, in mine.’

‘Why do I still feel like a six-year-old boy sometimes when I’m with you?’

Ronan’s face lit up as he recalled:

‘You were a mischievous, disobedient little rascal. You were already fearless then. Dear Lord, the pranks you got up to! I thought I’d die of fright the day you climbed onto the pigeon loft to see for yourself that the sun rose in the east. You gave us a terrible scare. You flatly refused to come down. And the night you went out into the forest to find the white unicorn in the fairy tale … And that time you nearly drowned yourself trying to stay underwater to see if you would grow gills. God only knows where you got all your ideas, but there was no stopping you. There were times when I thought I’d go out of my mind.’

The Comte’s mood softened a little as he recalled his childhood follies – some of which, indeed, had nearly cost him his life. He continued in a calmer voice:

‘Everybody. You, Clément, the clerk at Alençon … that Knight Hospitaller Francesco de Leone, whom I know only by name, even my physician who asks after “Madame’s” health and sends ointments for her which he makes up himself from a secret recipe.’

Ronan was no fool. His master’s sole concern was the knight. Was he angry with the man for having stepped in and saved Madame de Souarcy? Or was this simply the jealousy of a lover? Realising that his lord felt truly unable to discuss his fears with Monge de Brineux, the loyal servant cautiously broached the explosive subject of his master’s emotions:

‘Ah … the knight …’

‘What about the knight? His was not the only name I mentioned, was it?’

‘No, of course not.’

The Comte studied him for a moment before conceding defeat:

‘Come and sit down, Ronan – since your stubbornness is equal only to the turmoil I have been plunged into for days. And after all, who better to confide in … besides “Madame”, that is,’ he added, smiling for the first time in days.

The old man perched stiffly on one of the tiny armchairs, moved by his master’s evident display of affection and trust.

‘Well, yes … the knight. I don’t know what to make of him, my dear Ronan. I am assailed by the most foolish notions. Clément assured me that Madame de Souarcy had never met the man before he visited her in prison, and I believe him. I am also convinced that his sword killed Nicolas Florin. What could drive a Knight Hospitaller of his rank to assault a Grand Inquisitor? How did he find her in Alençon, and why? His mission was to save her, I’d wager my life on it. Why did Agnan, the dead fiend’s clerk, babble incomprehensibly about Madame Agnès, giving the impression that he was in love with her? Why does everybody, man and child, including myself, I confess, worship her to the point of risking their lives to save hers? Why, why this knight from Cyprus? What does he know of her?’ he exploded angrily.

‘Do you fear that he … how should I say, that this man who has taken a vow of chastity might have formed an improper attachment to her?’

‘And why not? Why wouldn’t he fall in love? Didn’t I fall for her body and soul from one moment to the next?’ the Comte retorted in a voice filled with irony.

‘Do you remember when you used to ask me questions to which I did not know the answers? And you champed at the bit, insisting: “There’s a solution to every problem. You only have to find it.”’

‘What are you trying to say?’

‘Would it not be best to confess your doubts to “Madame”? By all accounts she does not appear to be an evasive woman or one prone to playing foolish games.’

‘What, and make a complete idiot of myself? I’m not even sure that she sees any … attraction in me aside from my position and fortune. And you see, in her case that wouldn’t be enough for me; what is more, I doubt that for a woman like her it would be either.’

‘What better opportunity to find out? And at the same time grasp the nettle.’

‘You don’t mean with her …?’ Artus was indignant.

‘Indeed no, my lord. What did I teach you about never handling a lady directly?’ Ronan chortled. ‘It is far too dangerous. No, indeed. I had in mind the knight de Leone. You might approach him and obtain an explanation. I’ve heard these monk-soldiers aren’t easy to broach, but your name and reputation might encourage him to listen and save you a humiliating rebuff.’

It was so startlingly obvious that Artus gaped at Ronan – as though surprised to see him sitting there. When he finally spoke, he sounded more like his old self:

‘Do you realise, my dear Ronan, what a weight you’ve lifted off my shoulders? Why, good heavens! Of course, I will speak to the knight … I hope he hasn’t already left for some far-off land. Pray, send for Monge de Brineux. He may be able to help me. He has men posted everywhere.’

‘What about “Madame”?’

The Comte’s self-assurance suddenly faltered:

‘Well … Your advice is sound … But I need more time to weigh up the advantages and disadvantages. I … I am perfectly capable of grasping a whole bunch of nettles. But approaching a woman of such distinction is another matter. You see, Ronan,’ he went on, adopting a slightly didactic tone, ‘women are such complex – not to say unpredictable – creatures, whereas we men … well, we are more … straightforward, more approachable somehow.’

The wrinkled face, which years before had watched over him through many a feverish night, broke into a smile.

‘At least that is what we men like to believe. Is it not simply because women expect different things of life that we deem them unpredictable … not to say irrational?’

‘Well! Are you saying that I’m talking nonsense?’

‘Why, I wouldn’t dare, my lord,’ the old servant replied, a hint of triumph in his voice. ‘With your permission, I will take my leave and send for Lord de Brineux.’

‘Go.’

No sooner had the old man so dear to his heart left than Artus acknowledged what he had spent two weeks trying to avoid, preferring instead to fret, bridle, brood and rage. But he had not counted on Ronan. Ronan who had always known how to handle him, how to cajole him patiently into doing what he didn’t want to do: to sit down to meals, wash, go to bed, say his prayers, study at his desk and now, as a grown-up, to reflect.

He gave a sigh of impatience. Of course he would need to demand explanations from this mysterious Hospitaller. Was it possible for a soldier of God to form a sentimental attachment to a woman – albeit not just any woman? Artus was honest enough to acknowledge that his unease was in part due to jealousy. ‘Madame’ had stolen his heart and mind so swiftly, so completely, that he had barely had time to register it. So why not another man’s? What other explanation could there be for the knight’s readiness to kill without compunction a man of God, a Grand Inquisitor, the Pope’s representative – however depraved – in order to save her?

He charged furiously round the modest-sized room, like a caged lion, the tiny, uneven panes of glass rattling in the windows as he strode past.

Clément had assured him that his lady knew nothing of the knight before his unexpected arrival at the Inquisition headquarters.

‘God’s wounds!’ he mumbled through gritted teeth. It made no sense at all. Nothing about Madame de Souarcy made any sense. He froze at the thought. What scheme was being hatched around her?

Meeting the knight would be of no use to him, at least not yet. He had no choice but to do what Ronan had shrewdly suggested – to pay her a visit. His enthusiasm was tinged with dread. What if she sent him away? What if she were evasive? What if he discovered that she didn’t share his feelings? Yes, but what if she did?

He needed a pretext. It would make him appear less foolish. He wished to enquire after her health, and after that of young Clément – whose energy and enthusiasm were indeed missed at the chateau. In fact, Joseph seemed positively to pine for the boy’s constant probing.

Should he announce his arrival? He recalled Agnès’s annoyance, her stinging rebuke, the day he had arrived unannounced and caught her dressed in peasant’s breeches as she harvested her honey, her long, lissom thigh muscles tensing beneath the coarse cloth as she mounted Ogier. Goodness! The woman had not left his thoughts for a single moment since their first meeting.

Should he announce his arrival or not? It would certainly be more respectful, although as her overlord he was under no obligation. However, he thought he would discover what he wanted to know more quickly if his visit were a surprise.