Nicolas Florin, the Inquisitor, had swapped his robe for breeches, a chemise, a fustian doublet28 and a rather old-fashioned long dark-grey tunic that would help him to go unnoticed. A taupe-coloured cowl, the pointed end of which was wrapped round his neck, concealed the tonsure that would have drawn attention to him the moment he entered the tavern on Rue du Croc. There were few customers seated at the tables that early afternoon.
He identified the man who had requested the meeting by his affluent appearance, and walked over to his table. The man greeted him without a smile and invited him to sit down, beginning as soon as the innkeeper had served them another jug of wine.
‘As my messenger told you yesterday, this is a delicate matter and requires the utmost discretion.’
‘I understand,’ Nicolas nodded, sipping his wine.
Something struck his knee under the table. He grasped hold of it. A nice full purse, as agreed.
‘There is a hundred pounds, and a hundred more will follow when the trial is over,’ affirmed Eudes de Larnay in a murmur.
‘I am interested to know how you came to me.’
‘There are only three appointed Inquisitors in the Alençon region.’
‘This does not explain how you ruled out the other two candidates.’
‘It hardly matters,’ retorted Eudes, uneasily. ‘What matters is that the information I was given turns out to be correct. However, if you are not interested in the … affair, we shall let it rest,’ he concluded weakly.
Nicolas was not fooled. The other man needed him or he would never have risked arranging such a meeting. And he was not about to let go of two hundred pounds – a small fortune. He agreed wholeheartedly:
‘Indeed, you are right. Let us return to business.’
Eudes took what he hoped was a discreet gulp of air, before commencing the little speech he had rehearsed a dozen times.
‘My half-sister Madame Agnès de Souarcy is a wanton woman of loose morals. As for her devotion to the Holy Mother Church … the least I can say is that it lacks conviction …’
Nicolas did not believe a word of Larnay’s preamble. He had become very gifted at detecting liars and, aided by his own extraordinary talent for deception, was clever at discovering other people’s motives. What a fool the Baron was! Did he really believe Nicolas needed a good reason for dragging somebody before an inquisitorial court? Money more than sufficed. As for evidence and witnesses, he was perfectly capable of providing or procuring these himself. Yes, the wine was good and Baron de Larnay was the first real client on a list he trusted would be long and lucrative. There was no shortage of impatient heirs, vengeful or jealous vassals, or even ambitious or bankrupt merchants. It was worth spending a little of his time listening to this man spout his nonsense.
‘She indulges in carnal relations with a man of God, whom she has no doubt led astray through witchcraft. The man in question is her young chaplain – a certain Brother Bernard. The poor fool is so in her thrall that he has betrayed his faith. Moreover, for some years she has carried on unspeakable dealings with a simpleton who is as faithful to her as a dog.’
Well, well. Here was somebody who might help him. His patience had been rewarded.
‘Really? And what is the nature of these dealings?’
‘Potions, poisons and philtres in exchange for her favours.’
‘Do you have any evidence or witnesses to support this charge?’
‘The testimony of a very devout person who lived in Agnès de Souarcy’s household, and I’ll wager we can find others.’
‘I do not doubt it. Demonology is becoming more and more bound up with the pursuit of heretics. It is understandable – for what is the worship of demons if not the supreme form of heresy, an unforgivable offence against God?’
Eudes, who was uninterested in these finer points, continued:
‘A number of friars have met their deaths under strange and terrible circumstances near to her estate.’
‘Indeed! But is murder not a matter for the high justice of Seigneur d’Authon and his Bailiff?’
‘They have made precious little progress since the bodies were discovered.’
‘Are you suggesting that this lady might have cast a spell on Comte Artus and Monsieur de Brineux?’
‘The possibility cannot be ruled out – though it would be difficult to bring the matter to light given the rank and reputation of the two men.’
‘Indeed.’
Since his arrival at Alençon, Nicolas, who was a judicious manipulator, had spent part of his time familiarising himself with the powerful people of the region. It was out of the question for him to make an enemy of the Comte d’Authon, a friend to the King, and this reticence applied equally to Monge de Brineux. He continued his enquiry:
‘Madame de Souarcy, then, enjoys the backing of influential men even if she obtains it by demonic means?’ asked Nicolas Florin in a hushed voice.
Eudes realised he had made a tactical error. But his desire to drag Agnès through the mud blinded him. He tried to reassure the Inquisitor, correcting himself over-emphatically:
‘She is only another of my father’s bastard offspring. Why did he have to recognise her so late in life?’
His violent outburst caused some heads in the tavern to turn. He lowered his voice:
‘She has almost no property of her own, and I doubt whether Comte Artus and Monsieur de Brineux would defend her if she were found guilty of witchcraft. They are pious men of honour.’ Eudes paused suddenly. He had for some moments had a niggling suspicion, but his thinking was clouded by resentment and emotion.
‘Pray continue,’ urged Nicolas.
The Inquisitor’s soft voice made Eudes uneasy. However, he kept going:
‘The final and, no doubt, most serious charge, my Lord Inquisitor, is that Agnès de Souarcy once offered her protection to a heretic and with such zeal that one wonders whether she herself did not espouse the same theories. Moreover, she brought up the woman’s posthumous son whose devotion to her is such that he would lay down his life.’
A greedy smile formed on the Inquisitor’s exquisite lips.
‘The facts, for pity’s sake … you are keeping me in suspense.’ The sentence terminated in a sigh.
‘In the chapel register there is no surname entered for the child, Clément, or his mother, Sybille, for whom no funeral mass was held. Nor is there any mention of the name and status of the child’s godparents. Notwithstanding the cross planted on her tomb, Sybille was buried just outside the consecrated ground reserved for the servants of the manor.’
‘That is extremely interesting,’ Nicolas observed. Heresy remained the ideal grounds for accusation. The charges of witchcraft or demonic possession, which were more difficult to substantiate, suddenly seemed incidental.
Nicolas continued:
‘In accordance with your wishes the lady will be tried for heresy and complicity in heresy. Do you wish her confession to be … drawn out?’
At first, Eudes did not understand the precise meaning of the words. And then it struck him with full force and the blood fled from his face:
‘Let us be clear … it is out of the question for … for her …’ His voice had become so choked that Nicolas was obliged to lean over. ‘… Flogging will be sufficient. I want her to be afraid, to believe she is lost. I want her whipped until her pretty back and belly turn black and blue. I want her estate and her dower to be confiscated according to the law and to revert to her daughter, who will become my ward. I do not want her to die. I do not want her maimed or disfigured. The two hundred pounds are contingent upon this.’
The pronouncement dampened Nicolas’s enthusiasm. The affair was already losing its appeal for him. He comforted himself with the thought that he would soon have plenty of other toys to play with. It was better to take the money – the cornerstone of his fortune.
‘Everything will be done according to your wishes, Monsieur.’
‘Let us part company now. It is better for us not to be seen together.’
He wanted to be alone, away from the seductive presence he found so disquieting.
Nicolas stood up and took his leave with a radiant smile.
The nagging doubt the Baron had begun to feel earlier was growing stronger. Something was not right – something was very wrong. He placed his hands on his temples then swigged down the rest of his wine.
How had it come to this? True, he wanted Agnès to grovel and beg. He wanted to terrify her and make her swallow the contempt she felt for him. He wanted her dower. But at such a cost?
Was it he or Mabile who had first thought of delivering her into the hands of the Inquisition? He could no longer be sure.
Mabile had told him of her encounter with a friar who had refused to let her see his face and whose few words had been disguised by his thick woollen cowl. Was it this monk she had barely glimpsed who had suggested the name Nicolas Florin and the plot that was beginning to make Eudes increasingly uneasy?