The news of Apolline de Larnay’s death during childbirth did not surprise Artus d’Authon, although he was more affected by it than he had imagined he would be. Death was already visible in the grey woman’s eyes when he last saw her. And in her belly. The newborn baby, another girl, had outlived her mother by only a few hours. No one expected their loss to upset the feudal Baron unduly.

The death of this creature, whom he had once despised, stirred in him a strange sadness, the sadness of senseless waste.

He surprised himself contemplating Apolline’s life. She was one of those women who live only through their desire to be loved by the one they love. Eudes was neither her beloved nor had he ever loved her. And so she had remained locked inside herself, observing the passing of the years, emerging only on rare occasions – as when he had visited her two weeks before.

What on earth was the matter with him? Why did everything seem so painful to him of late? After the devastation caused by the death of his son, he had managed to make a life for himself that was relatively dull yet almost devoid of pain. True, he had never been one of those cheerful light-hearted fellows who are well liked in society. And yet since Gauzelin’s death nothing had come near to hurting him. So what was happening to him now? Why did Madame Apolline’s unjust end affect him so much? Countless women died in childbirth. He had discovered in himself recently an edginess and sensitivity he was unaware he possessed.

That woman … A smile appeared on his lips for the first time that bleak day, which had been heralded by one equally gloomy. He urged himself to think clearly – it would save time. He admitted that he had not stopped thinking about her since he left Souarcy. He was visited by images of her at night or in the middle of a meeting with his tenant farmers or during a hunt – causing him to miss his mark. When he calculated the difference between their ages, he was shocked to discover that he was nearly twenty years her senior, and yet her deceased husband had been more than thirty years older than her. And besides, a man’s age was of little consequence since his role was to provide for, honour and protect in exchange for love, obedience and a fecundity that would last his lifetime. Yes, but she was a widow, and the status of a widowed noblewoman with a child was without question one of the most favourable any lady could enjoy. If she possessed no fortune of her own, at least she would enjoy a dower, since it was unthinkable that a woman who had fulfilled her duties as both wife and mother could be left to fend for herself. Without a father or husband such a woman became mistress of her own destiny. This fortuitous status explained why many a noblewomen or burgher had no wish to remarry. Did Agnès de Souarcy subscribe to this way of thinking? He had no way of knowing. And anyway, who was to say she found him attractive or even simply agreeable?

After he had finished posing these troubling and unanswerable questions a black mood replaced the nervousness that was preventing him from finding any peace.

He brought his fist down on the table, almost upsetting the ink pot in the shape of a ship’s hull.

A strumpet was what he needed. Attractive and glad to accept the money he offered her. A girl who would provoke no interest in him. A moment of paid pleasure, meaningless and unmemorable. He had already grown tired of the idea before taking it any further. He did not want a girl.

The announcement of Monge de Brineux interrupted his troubled thoughts.

‘We have made some progress regarding the fifth and last victim.’

‘Have you determined his identity?’

‘Not as yet. However, he must have died a terrible death.’

‘How so?’

‘He almost certainly died from internal bleeding.’

‘What proof have you?’

‘The inside of his mouth was full of very fine cuts.40 In my opinion the victim was given food containing crushed glass. By the time he realised, it was too late. The poor devil bled to death internally.’

‘It is a method they use to kill wild animals in some countries. A truly terrible way to die. What of the other victims? Have you made any progress?’

‘It is very slow. I sought the advice of a medical theologian at the Sorbonne.’

‘And?’

‘An awful lot of science and very little assistance.’

‘I see. And what was his opinion?’

‘Only that the victims died violently.’

‘An inspired conclusion! He has solved the mystery for us!’ said Artus sardonically. ‘You would have done as well to seek the advice of my doctor, Joseph.’

‘The problem with those people is that they never leave their amphitheatres, and they keep as far away as possible from their patients, or the corpses they are entrusted with, for fear of being contaminated. They are content to learn by rote and trot out what others discovered over a thousand years ago. They can quote Latin at you until your head is spinning, but if it is treatment you want for a boil or a corn on your foot …’

‘We shall reach the bottom of this, Brineux, I assure you.’

‘Yes, but when? How? At least four of the victims were friars. One was an emissary of our Holy Father Benoît XI who has just died, poisoned. This affair, which might have remained a local act of villainy, is taking on the proportions of a political incident. We must make progress, and quickly.’

For several days now Artus had feared this. The last thing the delicate situation between the French monarchy and the papacy needed was a papal emissary discovered burnt to death without any trace of fire.