A farm hand, overcome by panic on hearing his name, had spluttered directions to the forest where he would find the lady of the manor.
Ogier walked at a slow pace, sensing his rider’s hesitancy in the slackening of the reins and the bit.
‘It’s not too late to turn back,’ Artus d’Authon muttered, as though seeking his horse’s approval. ‘What a ridiculous fool to have come here at all. No matter. We shall finish what we have begun, so be it!’
Ogier lengthened his step.
A good thirty yards away, a blanket of smoke caught his attention. Two men, one tall and heavily built, the other slender, were gesticulating in its midst. Two serfs, judging from their short tunics, tied at the waist with a wide leather strap, and their thick linen breeches. The two men both wore gloves and a peculiar bonnet on their heads with a fine veil bunched at the neck.
Artus was alerted by his horse’s sudden jumpiness. Why was a swarm of wild bees coming towards them? Hives. The two serfs were smoking out hives. He pulled up short and made Ogier walk back a few paces before dismounting and continuing alone on foot.
He was only a few yards from the two servants, yet they were seemingly so absorbed in their task that they did not notice his arrival. No doubt the strange protective garb they wore made it difficult to hear.
‘Hey there!’ he cried, alerting them to his presence while driving away the surrounding bees with a gloved hand.
The slender figure turned a veiled head towards him and a youthful, boyish voice spoke in a brusque tone that surprised the Comte:
‘Stand back, Monsieur, they are angry.’
‘Are they defending their honey?’
‘No, their king, and with a ferocity and self-sacrifice that would be the envy of many a soldier,’ replied the sharp voice.
‘Stand back, I tell you. Their sting is fierce.’
Artus obeyed. This was no boy but a woman, and a very comely one at that, in spite of her outlandish costume. So Agnès de Souarcy had of necessity become a beekeeper. Monge de Brineux was right, the lynx was brave, for those bees when they attacked could prove lethal.
A good ten minutes elapsed, during which he did not take his eyes off her, studying each of her precise, agile movements, admiring how calm she stayed in order not to alarm the bees, listening to the patient way she instructed her farm hand, who towered above her like a giant. Artus felt half amused, half embarrassed. It would doubtless grieve her to be caught wearing breeches, though these were certainly far better suited to collecting honey than a robe. Even so, the wearing of men’s clothes by women, for any reason, was strongly censured, although the doughty Eleanor of Aquitaine had done so in her day.
At last it appeared the two beekeepers had finished with the hives. They made their way towards him, the farm hand carefully carrying two pails brimming with the amber crop while the Dame de Souarcy loosened her protective veil, revealing two strawberry-blonde braids, which unfurled on either side of her pretty head.
As she walked up she addressed him blandly: ‘They will calm down now and rejoin their king.’ Then her tone changed suddenly, became scathing. ‘You surprised me wearing unsightly and improper clothing, Monsieur. It would surely have been more appropriate for you to have sent one of my servants to announce your arrival and to have waited until I returned to the manor.’
He had seldom seen a woman so completely beautiful right up to her high, pale brow with the hairline set slightly back, according to the fashion of the time. He opened his mouth to utter the apology he had prepared but she cut across him:
‘Souarcy is only a farm, I’ll grant you. However, I insist on a modicum of good manners and couth behaviour! Your name, Monsieur?’
Good gracious, the woman’s temper was beginning to unsettle him, and he a warrior and huntsman and one of the most redoubtable swordsmen in the kingdom of France. In truth he was quite unaccustomed to being snapped at like this. He recovered his poise and declared in a calm voice:
‘Artus, Comte d’Authon, Seigneur de Masle, Béthonvilliers, Luigny, Thiron and Bonnetable, at your service, Madame.’
A shiver ran down Agnès’s spine. The one man she ought never to have snubbed, much less offended. Admittedly, she had always doubted he would intervene on her behalf, and yet this powerful figure in the shadows had become like a magic spell she could never invoke for fear it might not work. Her inaccessible lucky charm. Indeed, this was the main reason why she had always refused to call upon him or his justice. If, as she feared, he were to turn her away, then she would be completely helpless, alone against Eudes and no longer able to delude herself into believing that some miracle might save her. And yet now more than ever she needed to believe it.
She closed her eyes and breathed a sigh, her face white as a sheet.
‘Are you unwell, Madame?’ he enquired, concerned, and offered her his hand.
‘It is nothing, just the heat and my fatigue.’ She collected herself and continued, ‘And the Seigneur de Souarcy. You forgot Souarcy.’
‘Souarcy is under the protection of Baron de Larnay, Madame.’
‘And he is your vassal.’
‘Indeed.’
Agnès gave a polite if belated curtsey encumbered by her peasant’s outfit.
‘You are right to mention it Madame; I have behaved like an oaf … Are you finished with the bees?’
‘Gilbert will see that they return to the hives. They like him. He is a gentle good soul. Would you be so kind, Gilbert?’
‘Oh yes, my good lady, I shall fetch the honey and the wax, too, don’t you worry.’
‘You look weary, Madame. Pray let Ogier take you back to the manor. Allow me.’
He stooped, clasping his fingers to make a foothold for her. She was dainty and lithe, and mounted with a natural ease, sitting astride the saddle. Despite the inappropriateness of this position for a lady he found her fascinating. She was undaunted by his destrier, which was an awkward animal with anyone but its master. She sat admirably well on the huge black stallion, and horse and rider made an astonishingly handsome pair. Artus was beginning to think Monge had been right. He was reluctant now to mention the pigeon he had killed earlier, afraid of spoiling this singular moment.
Too soon for his liking, for he had been savouring their silent walk, they reached the courtyard of the manor. Agnès did not wait for his helping hand but slid from the saddle down Ogier’s motionless flank.
Mabile had come running and the pale look on her face convinced Agnès that she was right in believing this man a godsend. The girl gave a deep curtsey. So she had already seen him at her master’s residence.
‘Pray excuse me, Monsieur, while I change. Mabile will fetch you some refreshments and a bowl of fresh fruit.’
‘I have something to show you, Madame,’ he began in a faltering voice, tapping the leather game bag that was attached to his saddle, ‘something I regret with all my heart.’
‘Some wild game?’
‘A terrible blunder.’
He pulled out the pigeon, stiff now, its silky throat stained with a layer of dried blood.
‘Vigil …’
‘He is yours, then.’
‘Indeed,’ Agnès murmured, fighting back the tears that veiled her eyes.
‘Madame, I am truly regretful. He was flying through one of my forests, I took aim and …’
Mabile made a mad rush for the animal, crying:
‘I’ll take him, Madame, don’t …’
‘Stop!’
The order resounded. Agnès had seen the message round the animal’s leg.
‘Leave it. I will deal with it.’
The girl retreated under Comte d’Authon’s baffled gaze. Agnès understood from her darting eyes and trembling lip that she was the author of the message, but she managed to keep her composure.
Her lucky charm. This man had already made a small miracle happen, for she was certain the message was addressed to Eudes. Now she knew how the plotters communicated: thanks to the beautiful trained bird, a generous gift from her half-brother. Her sadness at Vigil’s loss quickly faded and she turned, smiling, to face the person who had no notion of the enormity of the good turn he had just done her.
‘I am … an oaf. Pray believe me, Madame. I mistook it for a small pheasant. It was flying quite high and …’
‘Do not mention it, Monsieur. Your blunder saddens me for I was fond of the bird, but … not everyone would have shown your consideration by returning the animal to me. Pray excuse me a few moments. I shall rejoin you shortly.’
She clutched Vigil and went up to her chamber. Before entering she called out from the bottom of the rickety ladder.
‘Clément! I need your help.’
‘I’m coming, Madame.’
She heard a quiet patter of feet and a face peered through the trapdoor opening.
‘Vigil!’
‘Yes. Come down. He’s carrying a message.’
‘So he was their messenger!’
‘The huntsman is no other than Comte d’Authon. He is waiting for me in the great hall. Hurry.’
The child hurled himself down the ladder and joined her in her chamber. She briefly explained the unexpected encounter, which she dared not as yet consider a timely one. He listened with a smile on his lips that was betrayed by the gravity in his blue-green eyes.
‘Change out of your clothes, Madame. I will remove the message from the bird’s leg.’
Agnès paused. She had only a few minutes left in which to dress. What should she wear? Not the ceremonial robe she had fashioned from the sumptuous piece of silk Eudes had given her. Finery was not sufficient to charm this man. And charm him she must, her life depended on it. It was something at which she excelled and yet today she felt hindered by an unusual apprehensiveness.
‘It is written in code, Madame. Each number stands for a letter, except for these Roman numerals – they probably represent real numbers. It doesn’t need a genius to work out what they stand for: XXVIII – XII – MCCXCIV: 1294, the date of my birth. Mabile was sending him the information she found in the chapel register. The message might contain other clues that throw light on their plan.’
She turned towards Clément, who, out of a sense of modesty, was looking in the other direction over at the narrow window in the stone wall of her closet.
‘Will you be able to decipher its secrets? You must, Clément.’
‘I shall do my utmost. It is common to use a reference book and the few there are at Souarcy would mostly be inaccessible to the servants. My first choice would be the translation into French of the psalter you gave them. My only worry is that the two plotters might have been cleverer than we supposed. You see, the accomplices agree on a page and then number all the letters on that page. The ingenuity consists in beginning a few letters or lines into the page instead of with the first letter of the first line. It makes the job of decoding far more laborious and time-consuming.’
‘Where did you obtain all this knowledge?’
‘From books, Madame – they contain many marvels.’
‘Indeed, but they are difficult to come by, and I was unaware that our modest library possessed so many treasures.’
‘May I leave you to finish dressing, Madame?’
‘You may, but do not vanish as is your custom.’
‘Not tonight, Madame. I shall be watching over you.’
She stifled a smile. And yet what would she do without him, without his vigilance and his intelligence, which she saw new facets of every day?
Before leaving the room he whirled round and said in a hushed voice:
‘And what type of game do you think this one is, Madame? A stag?’
‘He is certainly strong and noble enough, but no, he possesses far more cunning. The stag runs until he hears the sound of the mort and then bravely but foolishly turns before charging. This one weighs up, thinks ahead. He knows when to renounce strategy in favour of strength, never the other way round. No. Not a stag, a fox, perhaps.’
‘Hmm … A worthy animal, though almost impossible to tame.’
He closed behind him the heavy, studded door.
The pale-grey robe she wore for mass would do perfectly. She covered her braids with a long fine veil fixed at her crown by a small darker-grey turban. The fluid contours of the robe enhanced her graceful figure and made her look taller, which was acceptable given the height of her guest. She had matched the elegant austerity of her clothes to her perception of him. She chewed a pinch of épices de chambre to scent her breath, and put a drop of the belladonna Eudes had brought from Italy the year before in the corner of her eye. She had used the contents of the little phial studded with grey pearls and miniature turquoises but once, to see the effect it had. The eyes seemed to dissolve, becoming strangely deeper, like two languid pools.
Agnès walked back via the kitchens where she knew she would find Mathilde. The little girl was greedily watching Adeline and Mabile prepare the food.
‘My lady daughter, the Comte d’Authon, an important man, has honoured us with his presence. I would like you to make an excellent impression, and then to take your leave without needing to be asked.’
‘The Comte d’Authon here, Madame?’
‘Indeed, it is no small surprise.’
‘But … my dress is old and ugly and …’
‘It is perfect. Besides, neither of our dresses could compete with those of the ladies in our lord’s entourage, and so we must content ourselves with being dignified, which is a woman’s best finery. Go and comb your hair and come back down at once.’
When Agnès rejoined the Comte in the great hall, he was sitting on one of the sideboards playing with the dogs.
‘Fine beasts, Madame.’
‘They are fearsome guard dogs … Or at least they were until your arrival.’
He smiled at the mild compliment and replied:
‘Animals seem to warm to me. No doubt it is on account of my good manners.’
She offered no apology for her earlier rebuke. It would be a mistake, for he would instantly detect her servility. The simple fawning she used so abundantly with Eudes would never work on this man. On the contrary, it would almost certainly repulse him.
A moment later, Mathilde made her entrance as agreed. She was struggling to catch her breath from running, but walked with a calm, measured step towards her liege lord.
‘Monsieur,’ she began, curtseying gracefully, ‘your presence within our walls is a rare pleasure indeed. And the honour you confer upon us brightens our humble dwelling.’
He went over to her, suppressing a good-natured chuckle.
‘You are utterly charming, Mademoiselle. As for pleasures and honours, believe me, they are all mine. Had I known that two of the most precious pearls in Perche lodged here at the manor, I should not have delayed so long in coming. It is an unforgivable oversight on my part.’
The little girl’s face flushed with joy at the immense flattery, and she took her leave, curtseying again.
‘Your daughter is delightful, Madame. How old is she?’
‘She is twelve. I try to teach her refinement. I hope she may enjoy a more … a more sumptuous life than the running of Souarcy.’
‘To which you have nonetheless devoted yourself.’
‘Mathilde was not born between two beds in the servants’ quarters, albeit the servant in question was a lady’s maid.’
Artus knew of the Dame de Souarcy’s illegitimate birth. It disconcerted him that she would flaunt it until he realised that by making light of it she was defending herself against gossip or, worse still, ridicule. She really was a fine lynx. And she pleased him greatly.
The dinner began on a note of delightful banter, notwith-standing the miserable expression Mabile wore as she served the cretonnée of new peas, freshly picked; the creamy soup thickened with egg yolk beaten in warm milk looked appetising.
Artus perceived that the lady was cultured, lively and intelligent and had a facility for repartee rare in a woman of her social standing.
When he complimented her on her composure earlier in the middle of a swarm of unfriendly bees, she told him of her first harvest with a playful look:
‘… A column of bees was coming towards me. I shrieked and in a moment of foolish panic threw the pail of honey at them, half believing that if I gave it back they would leave me alone. Nay! I was obliged to hitch up my dress and run as fast as my legs would carry me back to the manor. You should have seen me in my crooked turban with my veil half torn off. I even lost a shoe. One of the fierce sentinels flew under my skirts and stung me – well, above my knee, and hence the breeches. In short, I made an utter fool of myself. Thankfully Gilbert was the only witness to my pitiable retreat. He bravely drove back the bees, thrashing his arms in the air like an angry goose to protect me. He came back covered in swellings and running a temperature.’
Artus burst out laughing as he pictured the scene. How long since he had laughed like that and, above all, in the company of a woman?
His mind grew troubled by a memory. The small frightened face of the frail young woman he had married when he was nearing his thirtieth birthday. Madeleine, the only child of the d’Omoy family, was eighteen, a perfectly decent age for becoming a wife and mother. And yet she still played with dolls. Her weeping mother and her father, who would have gladly continued treating her as a child for a few more years if he had not needed to secure a commercial transaction with the Comte, agreed to her marriage to Artus. Normandy and its ports, which supplied large areas of the hinterland via an extensive network of waterways, was vital to the flourishing of Artus d’Authon’s commerce, all the more so since the region was equally rich in iron ore. As for Huchald d’Omoy, an impoverished yet distinguished nobleman, the Comte d’Authon’s gold would allow him to regild the family crest, tarnished following a series of ruinous investments. The young Madeleine d’Omoy sealed their contract. Anyone might have thought she had been abducted by a barbarian. For her their marriage began as a betrayal then turned into an ordeal when she realised that the physical distance separating her from her parents meant she would rarely see them. Artus could picture her now languishing in the room she almost never left, sitting on a chair under one of the arrow slits staring up at the sky, watching out for he knew not what. If he enquired, she would invariably turn her ashen face towards him, forcing a smile, and reply:
‘The birds, Monsieur.’
‘You would glimpse them more easily from the garden. It is warm outside, Madame.’
‘No doubt it is, Monsieur, but I am cold.’ She stayed where she was.
His visits to his wife’s bedroom became more infrequent. He felt unwelcome there, and had it not been for his need of an heir he would doubtless have ceased inconveniencing Madeleine with his presence. He had never felt any desire for her. That skinny angular body, which he hardly dared touch for fear it might break, inspired a sort of pity in him that had gradually become mingled with repulsion.
The birth had been a nightmare. For hours on end he had listened to her groans from the lobby of her chamber. Immediately after the delivery she had nearly succumbed to a haemorrhage that all but drained her weak blood. Despite the attentions she received from the physic and the midwife, which appeared partially to revive her, she doubtless had little will to live and three weeks after Gauzelin’s birth, without a last word or even a gesture, her frail existence was snuffed out like a candle.
He surprised himself casting furtive glances at Agnès. She was strikingly beautiful and graced her speech with elegant gestures. Underneath all this refinement he was sure she possessed a rare strength of mind. Hugues de Souarcy had been a fortunate man when he married her at Robert de Larnay’s request – she much less so. Not that Hugues was a bad man – on the contrary – but he was a coarse man whose rough edges had hardly been refined by wars and the tireless frequenting of taverns. Moreover, he was already quite advanced in years when they married. How old had she been then, thirteen, fourteen perhaps?
They talked of this and that, making each other laugh and jumping from one subject to another in an atmosphere of humorous repartee. She paused, concluding:
‘With their Roman de la Rose* Messieurs de Lorris and de Meung left me, how should I say … disappointed. The beginning and the end were so different. I found parts of the first story conventional, not to say over-indulgent, while the second, the satire on “feminine etiquette” by Ami et la Vieille, grated on my nerves.’
‘The second author was a Parisian scholar and not always successful in avoiding the pitfalls of his education – which he was fond of parading – or of his milieu, or indeed those of farce itself.’
‘In contrast, I confess to being extremely partial to the ballads and fables of Madame Marie de France.* What wisdom, what finesse! The way she makes the animals speak as though they were humans.’
Artus could not resist seizing the opportunity.
‘I, too, admire the lady’s finesse and use of language. And what did you think of the poem entitled Yonec?’
Agnès immediately understood the reference. In that enchanting poem – the pretext for a discourse on true love – a woman who has married against her will prays to heaven to send her a sweet lover. Her wish is granted and the lover arrives in the form of a bird which turns into a prince.
She took her time responding, lowering her gaze towards the snail, herb and onion pâté which, enthralled as she was by their conversation, she had hardly tasted. He reproached himself for her silence:
‘The term uncouth would seem perfectly suited to me this evening. Pray forgive my tasteless question, Madame.’
‘Why, Monsieur? Indeed, my Seigneur Hugues was not the husband of a young girl’s dreams, but he was courteous and respectful towards his wife. Besides, I did not dream. Dreams were a luxury I was scarcely permitted.’
‘More’s the pity, Madame.’
‘Indeed.’
The acute sadness his idiotic question had caused the young woman wounded him.
‘I feel I have behaved like an insensitive oaf.’
‘No, for, with all due respect, I would not have allowed that. Hugues was my life raft – I believe that is the name sailors give it, and he was no less dependable. I was thirteen years of age. My mother had left this world when I was still a child and as for the Baroness, God rest her good soul, she was more interested in astronomy than matchmaking. In brief, I knew nothing of the role of wife … nothing of the duties involved.’
‘Some of which can be pleasurable.’
‘So I believe. In any event, Hugues never lost his patience with me. His only failing in my eyes was that he allowed Souarcy to go to rack and ruin. He was no farmer, even less an administrator, he was a soldier. Most of the land had turned into a wilderness and parts of it had become barren.’
‘Why did you not seek your brother’s protection after your husband’s death? Life at Larnay would surely have been less arduous for a young widow and her child.’
Agnès’s face froze, and her pursed lips spoke louder than any words. He quickly changed the subject. Now he knew the answer to the question he had been asking himself all evening.
‘The snail pâté is divine.’
He sensed the effort she needed to make in order to return to polite conversation and he was overcome by a strange tenderness.
‘Is it not? The little animals are very partial to the baby lettuce we grow here. It gives them a sweet flavour, which we bring out with sautéed onion. And what they don’t eat we use in soups or salads.’
Next, Mabile served roast rack of wild boar in a glistening sauce made of verjuice, wine, ginger, cinnamon and clove, served with broad bean purée and stewed apple. As soon as the servant had returned to the kitchen Artus declared:
‘That girl is peculiar.’
She is afraid I might find out the meaning of the message Vigil was carrying, that is why she is peculiar, thought Agnès. She fixed the Comte’s dark eyes with her grey-blue gaze and said:
‘A gift from my half-brother Eudes.’
It was clear to him from her voice that it was one she would have gladly refused and that she mistrusted the girl.
The dinner continued. Agnès put the conversation back on a pleasant light-hearted footing. Their amusing exchanges were once again punctuated by repartee, learned observations and poetic quotations. Not that the Comte’s earlier seriousness had annoyed the lady; on the contrary it had allowed her to let him glimpse the aversion she felt for her half-brother. She had said nothing to compromise herself, and if the Comte were on friendly terms with Eudes, she could always maintain that he had misinterpreted her mood. The cause would once again be attributed to the fickle nature of women’s disposition.
Having achieved her aim of gratifying him with her company and her conversation, Agnès now studied him properly for the first time. He towered above her by a head and a half, though she was tall for a woman. He had dark hair and dark eyes – rare in a region where men tended to have light-chestnut or blond hair and blue eyes. He wore his hair shoulder-length, as was the fashion among the powerful. It was wavy and flecked with grey. He had a good, straight nose, and a chin that revealed authority, and intolerance, too. He moved with rare elegance for a man with such a muscular build. His brow was deeply furrowed, weathered from years of riding. A fine specimen indeed.
‘You are examining me, Madame,’ a deep voice said, not without a hint of satisfaction.
Agnès’s cheeks flushed and she dissembled:
‘You have a hearty appetite. It is a pleasure to receive you in my home.’
‘Believe me, the pleasure is all mine.’
She detected an amused sparkle in his eye.
All at once, the Comte’s smile faded, and he instinctively raised his hand to tell her to be quiet. He strained his ear in the direction of the postern door.
Agnès swallowed hard. Clément.
Artus d’Authon rose to his feet and crept cat-like over to the door. What should she do? Feign a sudden attack of coughing? Warn the child by crying out: ‘What is it, Monsieur!’ in a loud voice? No. The Comte would see through the ruse and the evening had been going too well to risk ruining everything now.
He pulled hard on the door, and Clément toppled into the room like a sack of potatoes. He hauled him up sharply by the ear.
‘What are you doing here? Were you spying on us?’
‘No, Monsieur. No, no …’
Clément shot Agnès an alarmed look. Artus would be within his rights to flog the hide off him if he saw fit. He was trapped. The Dame de Souarcy thought quickly.
‘Come over here, Clément, my dear.’
‘Is he one of your servants?’
‘The very best. He is my protector. He was keeping a watch on you to make sure his lady was in no danger.’
‘He is a little on the small side to offer much protection.’
‘Indeed, but he is brave.’
‘And what would you have done, my boy, had my wicked intention been to pounce on your lady?’
Clément pulled out the carving knife he carried on him at all times, and declared in a solemn voice:
‘Why, I would have killed you, Monsieur.’
The Comte burst out laughing and, amidst gasps of merriment, declared:
‘Do you know, young man, I believe you capable of it! Now off to bed with you; nothing untoward will happen to your mistress, upon my honour.’
Clément stared at Agnès, who nodded in agreement. He vanished as if by magic.
‘You stir passionate loyalties, Madame.’
‘He is still a child.’
‘A child who would have stabbed me to death if necessary, I am sure of it.’
A bewildering thought flashed through his mind. This woman was worth risking life and limb to protect.
Just then Mabile entered the room, her eyes bright with curiosity.
‘A thousand pardons. I thought you might be in need of assistance, Madame.’
‘No. We are waiting for the third course,’ Agnès replied curtly. The girl bowed her head, slowly enough for the Dame de Souarcy to be able to glimpse the spite in her eyes.
The dessert of fruit and nut rissoles soon appeared. Mabile’s face wore a more friendly expression. Even so, Agnès would have to put a stop to this girl and the façade they had been keeping up for months, and the thought worried her. Up until then, she had been able to manipulate Eudes by pretending she admired and trusted him. The incident with the pigeon had undermined this strategy, which, however dishonest, had succeeded over the years. The secret battle between her and her half-brother was about to burst out into the open and she was unprepared. She would be defeated. She had acted rashly and foolishly by demanding the carrier pigeon be returned to her. Restraining herself would have enabled her to keep up the pretence of not knowing Eudes’s true intentions a little longer. Comte Artus’s miraculous arrival and the obvious pleasure he had derived from their evening together only increased her anger with herself. With a little more time she might have gained in him an important ally. Her reckless anger towards the girl had spoiled everything. Agnès silenced her anxieties.
The last course was a thick cherry cream with wine, served on crêpes.
‘You have treated me to a veritable banquet, Madame.’
‘A modest one for a nobleman of your standing.’
He was surprised by this formal courtesy coming from her lips, but understood when he looked up and saw the servant now waiting on them. It was no longer the sullen, miserable-looking woman from before but a rather ungainly, stocky young girl.
‘Adeline, you will prepare the master bedroom in the South Wing for Seigneur d’Authon.’
The young girl mumbled her consent and curtseyed clumsily before scurrying from the room.
‘She is not very bright, but she is trustworthy,’ Agnès explained.
‘Unlike Mabile, do you mean?’
Agnès responded with a vague smile.
‘I regret having put you to so much trouble. I fear I have outstayed my welcome. I shall leave at dawn. Pray, grant me the favour of not troubling yourself to attend my departure. One of your farm hands can saddle my horse.’
‘And I am obliged to you for the rare and all too brief entertainment your visit has brought me. The evenings here at Souarcy are long, and your presence has lifted the customary dullness that descends upon them.’
He stared at her, hoping that her glib speech was more than just a mark of exquisite politeness.
*
Less than an hour later, he was settled in what had been Hugues de Souarcy’s chamber, which Adeline had gone to great pains to prepare – even starting a fire in the grate although the evening was mild. He walked over to the metal sconces in order to blow out the candles. Their sheer number attested to their having been lit in his honour. No small luxury for such a modest household, for even if her hives produced wax, Agnès probably sold it instead of using it. After removing his surcoat, he stretched out on the bed without taking the trouble to undress or even to take off his shoes, and lay with his eyes open, staring into the darkness.
Artus acknowledged his confusion. What had started as mere curiosity on his part had turned into something quite unexpected. He had even forgotten about the gruesome murders.
Clearly the lady pleased him greatly, and this type of attraction had become rare enough in his life for it to unsettle and surprise him. Was his life really so empty that the Dame de Souarcy could fill it this easily? His life, it was true, had become a wilderness. In reality, it had always been one – a wilderness full of obligations and interests, which helped him to forget the painfully slow passing of time. And now eight hours had just gone by in a flash. Over the course of a single evening, time had regained its urgency. This lady had cured Artus’s boredom and, what was more, his expectation of boredom. Her victory had been a swift one and yet she suspected nothing.
He was mistaken. Agnès was fully aware of the gains she had made during the course of their dinner. And, although she felt triumphant, she was clear-sighted enough to realise that she had won only a simple battle and that the real war was yet to come.
After leaving instructions for the Comte to be woken, she went back up to her chamber, pretending not to notice Mabile’s absence from the kitchens. Perhaps the evil creature had run to seek refuge with her former master? Nonsense! Not in the night and on foot.
The glow of an oil lamp made her pause at the top of the stone steps.
A voice whispered:
‘Madame …’
‘Are you not asleep yet, Clément?’
‘I was waiting for you.’
He went ahead of her into her room, which was sparsely lit by a few tallow lamps. The resin torches, which blackened the walls, were reserved for the long bare stone passageways or for the cavernous halls.
‘Has something bad happened?’ Agnès asked, after pushing the heavy door closed.
‘You could say that. Somebody removed the pigeon and the message from your chamber this evening.’
‘But you took it up to your attic with you,’ objected the lady.
‘Only while I copied out the message. Afterwards I rolled the strip of paper carefully round the bird’s leg and replaced him in your quarters, on the dressing table.’
‘You knew she would take it, didn’t you? So that is where she went between courses.’
‘I could have sworn it,’ the boy retorted. ‘Madame, we are not ready to confront the Baron head on. Mabile cannot be certain you saw the message or, even worse, that you suspect it comes from her. It suits her purposes not to know, to turn a blind eye. Otherwise she would be obliged to tell her master that their plan has failed, and he would not thank her for it. We need to gain more time in order to prepare for this fight, especially now after the Comte’s unexpected visit.’
Agnès closed her eyes in relief, and bent down to embrace the child.
‘What would I do if it weren’t for you?’
‘Were it not for you I would be dead, Madame; were it not for you I would die.’
‘Then let us both do our utmost to stay alive, dear Clément.’ She planted a kiss on the boy’s forehead and watched him leave the room noiselessly, her eyes moist with tears.
She stood still for a few moments, struggling against the memory of years of sadness and privation, of loneliness and fear. She fought off, inch by inch, the stubborn desire to surrender, to abandon herself.
A sudden voice, a voice she knew as if it were her own, floated into her consciousness. A sweet, gentle, but firm voice whose words she had treasured, the voice of her good angel, the Baroness Clémence de Larnay. How could she have almost forgotten her own mother when Madame Clémence’s every gesture, smile, frown or caress was imprinted on her body and soul? God only knew how much she had loved that woman, so much that there were times when she thought of her as her only mother because they had chosen each other. God only knew how bereft she had felt when the woman died.
Her eyes brimmed with burning tears and she heard herself murmur:
‘Madame, I miss you so very much.’
Agnès let herself be engulfed by all the years of lessons, laughter, secrets and affection they had shared. Madame Clémence had insisted the little girl choose a constellation for them. Agnès had taken a long time deciding between Virgo, Orion, the Plough and countless others, plumping finally for Cygnus, which shone so bright in early September. It was Madame Clémence who had read and re-read the ballads of Madame Marie de France to her. How they had both relished the poem Lanval, about a brave knight to whom a fairy promised her love on condition that he kept it secret. The Baroness had taught her how to play chess, roguishly warning her: ‘I confess to cheating. However, for love of you I shall try to play fairly for the first few games.’
Had Madame Clémence been happy? Perhaps, during the first few years of her marriage, though Agnès could not know for sure. In fact, it was their mutual loneliness that had first brought them together. The loneliness of a beautiful lady declining in years, whose husband and son appeared to treat her like a piece of furniture, addressing her with frosty politeness, and of a little girl terrified by the thought of being abandoned after her mother’s death, tormented by Eudes, who had dinned it into her that she would do well to obey him if she did not want to find herself out on the street. Deep down, Agnès realised that she had always been afraid, except when Madame Clémence’s presence had given her the courage to keep going, to face her fears.
She recalled a long-forgotten scene. What had happened exactly? No doubt Baron Robert had returned to Larnay after one of his amorous encounters, the worse for drink and reeking of the female sex. He had charged into his wife’s chamber without taking the trouble to knock, intent on gratifying one last urge. Agnès was sitting at Madame Clémence’s feet being read a story. At her husband’s rude drunken entrance the Baroness stood up. He muttered a few words that caused Madame Clémence’s face to turn pale, but which the little girl did not understand.
Agnès could still hear the cold, sharp voice ringing in her ears:
‘Leave here this instant, Monsieur!’
The Baron had staggered over to his wife, his hand raised as though to slap her. Instead of backing away or crying out she had moved towards him and, seizing him by his coat collar, had growled:
‘You do not scare me, Monsieur! Do not forget who I am or where I come from! Who do you think you are, you pig? Go and mount your whores if it pleases you and leave us in peace. I do not wish to see your face until you are sober and penitent. I command you to leave here at once, you uncouth drunkard!’
Agnès remembered seeing the Baron visibly recoil, his shoulders hunched, his drunken red face turning a greyish-green. He had opened his mouth, but no sound had come. The Baroness stared at him, unflinching, standing her ground.
He had done as she asked, or more precisely, as she commanded, muttering feebly for a man of his pride: ‘You’ve gone too far!’
As soon as the door to her quarters had closed, Madame Clémence had been seized by a fit of trembling. She had explained to the alarmed and confused Agnès in a voice that was once more gentle:
‘The only way to bring a dog to heel is to growl more fiercely than he, to raise your ears and tail and bare your teeth.’
‘And then he won’t go for your throat?’
Madame Clémence had smiled and stroked Agnès’s hair. ‘In most cases he will back down, though sometimes he will attack, and when that happens you must fight.’
‘Even if you are afraid he might bite you?’
‘Fear will not save you from being bitten, my dear. On the contrary.’
To fight.
Up until then, Agnès had always tried to avoid conflict by outwitting her enemy, by using her guile. For years the strategy had seemed to work. Though not entirely, for she now found herself in an even more dangerous position than the one she had been in before her marriage or just after Hugues’s death.
Guile? That was what she had always told herself. But why not admit it: she had no guile; she was simply afraid. She had comforted herself with the thought that as a woman it was more appropriate, more becoming, to take a defensive position. But vultures such as Eudes made no exceptions for women. On the contrary, women inflamed their thirst for blood because they counted on a woman’s weakness and fear to provide them with a swift and painless victory.
To fight. There would be no more evasion, no more pretence.
It was her turn to attack and she would show no more mercy than her enemy.
The iron mine, Eudes’s mine, which rumour had it was almost exhausted. Her half-brother and his ancestors before him had built the Larnay fortune on it and, more importantly, had received the self-interested benevolence of the monarchs they served. What if King Philip were to learn that the deposit was nearly depleted? Unquestionably the small favours its owner enjoyed would soon dry up, too. Eudes would be alone and defenceless. Artus d’Authon would once more be his all-powerful liege lord, and Artus liked Agnès, she knew. It is easy to observe when emotion takes a sincere man by surprise. No more guile, she had said. But there was nothing wrong with her using her feminine wiles. They were a weapon, one of the few that a woman was still permitted to wield.
To growl more fiercely, to raise her ears and tail, and bare her teeth. And above all to be ready to leap at her enemy’s throat. To prevail.
How would she reach the King? The answer was simple: anonymously. The only intermediary the Dame de Souarcy could think of was Monsieur de Nogaret, of whom it was said he watched over the interests of the kingdom as if his own life depended on it.
She felt a sudden release and let her body slowly slide to the floor. She let out a long and peaceful sigh:
‘Thank you, my angel, thank you, Clémence.’
It was not yet daybreak when Artus climbed back into the saddle the following morning. There was no reason for him to leave so early other than an irrational fear of meeting again, so soon, the woman who had robbed him of his sleep. For he had lain awake the whole of that short night, smiling one minute as he recalled her almost girlish hilarity, troubled the next by his strange infatuation.
A regular popinjay! He chuckled at the image of himself, a man over forty years of age behaving like a foolish lovesick youth! What a miracle! What a delightful miracle!
He sat up straight, trying his best to put on a sombre face in keeping with his reputation.
A few moments later he was riding across country, intoxicated by the powerful supple speed of Ogier, who was refreshed after his night’s rest. A sudden anxious thought sobered him: what if he were making a mistake? What if she were a mere illusion and not the ideal woman he had, until then, never allowed himself to believe in?
He slowed his horse to a walk, troubled by the notion.
A hundred yards on he was smiling again as he recalled her account of her first honey harvest that had ended in a farcical failure.
The riotous flurry of emotions startled him. Zounds! Could he be falling in love? So soon? The attraction was clear, at least as far as he was concerned. However, attraction of the senses was, in everyone’s opinion, commonplace and arbitrary enough for it not to cause him any great concern. But love and love’s pains … In all honesty he could not say he had ever experienced them.
A sudden fit of laughter threw him onto the pommel of his saddle and against Ogier’s neck. The horse gave a friendly shake of its mane.