The grime sticking to her hands and legs disgusted her. Her scalp itched and the stench of her dress, soiled with sweat and sour milk from the soup she ate each evening with a spoon she could not see, sickened her. She had removed her veil, dipped a corner of it in the ewer of water and tried to wash herself as best she could. How long had she been there? She had lost all sense of time. Three, five, eight, ten days? She had no idea and clung to the thought that sooner or later the inquisitor would have to interrogate her. And then … No. She must avoid thinking about what would happen then. Florin was counting on using fear to break her and make his task easier. There is nothing more destructive than despair – except perhaps hope.
Had it been night or day when she slept? The nightmares had kept coming, but she had discovered a way of keeping her waking fears at bay by reliving the most precious moments in her life. They were few and far between and she was obliged to conjure up the same ones over and over again: gathering flowers, harvesting honey, the birth of a foal, Clément’s knowing smile. She had spent hours reciting the ballads of Madame Marie de France,* starting again from the beginning when she forgot the words. She had recreated entire conversations of no import: stories Madame Clémence had told her, instructions she would give for a dinner, soothing words she used with Mathilde, a discussion on theology with the chaplain. Nothing of any import. Her life amounted to nothing of any import.
Agnès jumped. The sound of heavy footsteps on the stone stairs that she had descended she could not remember when, followed by Florin who was eager to show her her cell. She stiffened, listening hard, trying to interpret every sound. Was he coming to interrogate her?
The steps ended long before they reached her door. The sound of something sliding and the shuffle of feet. A heavy object being dragged. She rushed over and pressed her ear to the wooden panel and waited, straining to hear through the silence.
A shriek followed by a wail. Who was it? The man who had begged her to die quickly?
The shrieking began again and continued for what seemed to her like an eternity of pain.
The torture chamber was right next to the cells.
Her mind became awash with dark, screaming, bloody images. Agnès slumped to her knees in the mud and wept. She wept as though the world were about to end. She wept for that man, or another, for the weak and innocent – she wept because of the power of brutes.
She did not pray. She would have needed to invoke death for her prayer to have any meaning at all.
Was it morning when she awoke on her pallet with no memory of having dragged her body there? Had the endless torment just finished? Had she fainted? Had her mind mercifully allowed her a moment’s oblivion?
So, the torture chamber was right next to the cells. In this way the torments of other prisoners fed the fear of those still waiting in the evil-smelling darkness of their cells.
She felt a slight sense of relief in that place that tolerated none. There would be the weeks of questioning first. The intrinsic obscenity of the thought shocked her: those others she had seen crouched on the floor were being tortured, not her, not yet. The intention of Florin and the other inquisitors became clear. They wanted to break them, to reduce them to pitiful, terrified, tormented souls in order to convince them that salvation lay in siding with their executioners, in confessing to sins they had never committed, in denouncing others, in destroying their innocence.
Break. Break their limbs, their bones, their consciences, their souls.
Someone was approaching. Her heart missed a beat as the footsteps paused in front of her cell. A wave of nausea made her throat tighten as the bolt grated. She stood facing the door. Florin stooped to enter the tiny space, a sconce torch in his hand.
The inquisitor enquired directly in a soft voice:
‘Have you made peace with your soul, Madame?’
The frightened words ‘Indeed, my Lord Inquisitor’ echoed in Agnès’s head and yet she heard herself reply calmly and unfalteringly:
‘My soul was never in turmoil, Monsieur.’
‘It is my job to find that out. I consider the interrogation room more suitable for the initial cross-examination of a lady than this cell which’ – he sniffed the lingering odour of excrement and stale food in the air and screwed up his face – ‘which smells like a sewer.’
‘I have become habituated to it, as you assured me I would when I arrived. However, the other room would allow you to sit down and me to stand up straight.’
‘Do you give me your word, Madame, that you do not need shackles or a guard?’
‘I doubt that it is possible to escape from the Inquisition headquarters. Besides, I am weak from these few days of semi-fasting.’
Florin nodded then turned to leave. Agnès followed him. A fair-haired youth was waiting a few feet away, carefully holding an escritoire upon which stood an ink-horn and a small oil lamp. He was the scribe charged with recording her declarations.
As they passed the barred cells, Agnès searched in vain for the man who had grasped her ankle. Her eyes closed in a gesture of quiet relief as she realised that he must be dead. He was free of them.
The nearer they came to the low-ceilinged room, the more Agnès felt as if the air were coming alive. It felt lighter, more vibrant. They crossed the enormous room to the hallway. She felt curiously elated at the sight of a patch of sky heavy with rain clouds, seen through the tiny windows looking out onto the courtyard. They turned right and walked up another staircase made of dark wood. When they reached the landing, Florin turned to her. The effort of climbing fourteen steps had left Agnès breathless. Florin observed:
‘Fasting allows the mind to soar free.’
‘You are living proof of it.’
She bit her lip in fright. Had she taken leave of her senses? What did she think she was saying? Surely, if she angered him, he would wreak his revenge. He had all the means at his disposal.
Florin lost his composure for an instant. This was the other woman speaking, the one he had already glimpsed behind Agnès’s pretty face. He could have sworn that she was completely oblivious to the transformation. He was mistaken. An inexorable calm washed over Agnès, flushing away the seeds of terror Florin was attempting to sow; the powerful shades whose presence she had felt during her first encounter with the inquisitor had returned.
They stopped before a high door, which the young scribe hurriedly opened. Agnès walked through, looking around her as though she were a curious visitor. For the past few moments, she had been overwhelmed by an odd sense of unreality, as though her mind were floating outside her body.
Agnès stood in the middle of the freezing, cavernous room, her mind a complete blank. Strangely, the exhaustion she had felt when she left her cell had given way to a pleasant languor.
Four men sat waiting impassively at a long table: a notary and his clerk, as required by the procedure, and two Dominicans, besides the inquisitor. The mendicant friars sat staring down at their clasped hands resting on the table, and Agnès thought to herself that despite the difference in age they could almost be twins. It was in Florin’s power to call upon two ‘lay persons of excellent repute’, but such people were less well versed in theology and so less intimidating to the would-be heretic. Four austere-looking men dressed in black robes sitting together formed a threatening wall.
Monge de Brineux, Comte Artus d’Authon’s bailiff, would not be present at the interrogation as Florin had neglected to invite him.
The inquisitor sat down in the imposing, ornately sculpted armchair at one end of the table, while the young scribe settled himself on the bench.
She listened through a fog to Florin’s booming voice:
‘State your Christian names, surname and status, Madame.’
‘Agnès Philippine Claire de Larnay, Dame de Souarcy.’
At this point the notary rose to his feet and read out:
‘In nomine Domini, amen. On this the fifth day of November in the year of Our Lord 1304, in the presence of the undersigned Gauthier Richer, notary at Alençon, and in the company of one of his clerks and two appointed witnesses, Brother Jean and Brother Anselme, both Dominicans of the diocese of Alençon, born respectively in Rioux and Hurepal, Agnès Philippine Claire de Larnay does appear before the venerable Brother Nicolas Florin, Dominican, Doctor in Theology and Grand Inquisitor appointed to the region of Alençon.’
The notary sat down again without glancing at Agnès. Florin continued:
‘Madame, you are accused of having given refuge to a heretic by the name of Sybille Chalis, your lady’s maid, of having helped her escape our justice and of having allowed yourself to be seduced by heretical ideas. Further accusations have been made against you which we consider it preferable not to discuss here today.’
The procedure allowed him to keep that trump card in case she managed miraculously to clear herself of the charge of heresy.
‘Do you admit to these facts, Madame?’
‘I admit to having employed in my service one Sybille Chalis, who died in childbirth during the winter of 1294. I swear on my soul that I never had the slightest suspicion of her heresy. As for the seductive power of such heretical abominations, I know nothing of it.’
‘We will be the judge of that,’ Florin retorted, suppressing a smile. ‘Do you confess to having kept the son of this heretic, a certain Clément, who in turn entered your service?’
‘As I have already stated, I did not suspect his mother’s heresy, and saw in the gesture an act of Christian charity. The child has been brought up to love and respect the Church.’
‘Indeed … and what of your own love of the Holy Church?’
‘It is absolute.’
‘Is it indeed?’
‘It is.’
‘In that case why not prove it here and now? Do you swear on your soul and on the death and resurrection of Christ to tell the whole truth? Do you swear that you will conceal nothing and omit nothing?’
‘I swear.’
‘Take heed, young woman. The seriousness of this oath far outweighs any you have sworn thus far.’
‘I am aware of that.’
‘Very well. Since it is my job to try by every means possible to clear you of the charges, I must ask you before we begin to tell me whether you know of any persons who might seek to harm you?’
She stared at him, feigning puzzlement through her exhaustion. Brother Anselme, the younger of the two Dominicans, believing the point needed explaining to her, cast a searching glance at the other friar before venturing:
‘Sister, do you believe anyone capable of gravely perjuring themselves in order to harm you, out of hatred, envy or sheer wickedness?’
A second trap. Clément had warned her. It was better to supply a long list of potential informers than to absolve out of hand a close friend or relative who might turn out to be her fiercest accuser.
‘I do. And for reasons so disgraceful that I am ashamed to mention them.’
‘Pray give us their names, Madame,’ the Dominican demanded.
‘My half-brother, Baron Eudes de Larnay, who has hounded me with his incestuous desires since I was eight. His servant Mabile, whose surname I do not know and whom he introduced into my household in order to spy on me. Finding nothing to satisfy her master, she invented tales of heresy and shameful carnal relations in order to tarnish my name.’
Agnès went quiet as she tried to think who else might wish her harm. She hoped that her chaplain, Brother Bernard, had spared her, but after all she did not know him well. How could she be sure?
‘Who else?’ Brother Anselme insisted.
‘My new chaplain, who does not know me well, might have misjudged me. Perhaps one of my serfs or peasants resents paying me tithes. My servant girl Adeline. I cannot imagine what possible grudge she could hold against me, but I have reached the point where I trust no one. Perhaps she took offence when I told her off one day.’
‘Oh, we know that sort with their vipers’ tongues. They turn up at every trial and their accusations are treated with caution. In contrast, a man of the cloth … However, we shall see. Anybody else?’
‘I am not guilty of any discrimination.’
‘If this is the truth, then God’s acknowledgement will enlighten us accordingly. Anybody else, Madame?’ Brother Anselme insisted, glancing again at the other Dominican, who remained impassive.
Agnès thought quickly: Clément, Gilbert the simpleton, Artus d’Authon, Monge de Brineux, Éleusie de Beaufort, Jeanne d’Amblin and many others occurred to her, but no one who was capable of perjuring themselves out of sheer spite. Gilbert, perhaps. He was a gentle soul but weak and malleable enough for an inquisitor easily to put words in his mouth. She added regretfully:
‘Gilbert, one of my farm hands. He is a simpleton and understands very little of anything. He lives in a world of his own.’ Suddenly fearful of endangering him, she corrected herself: ‘But his soul has always remained faithful to Our Lord, who loves the pure and innocent …’
She weighed her words. She must avoid implying that Florin was assembling false accusations or biased testimonies. She was still unsure whether the two friars Anselme and Jean were Florin’s henchmen, but she did not want to risk vexing them by incriminating a representative of their order, a doctor in theology moreover.
‘… He is dull-witted and slow of speech and it would be easy to draw stories out of him that might appear strange or even suspicious.’
‘Madame …’ the Dominican chided her softly in a sad voice.
‘Do you truly believe that we would consider the accusations of a simpleton?’
She was sure they would not, but this way the notary was obliged to record that Gilbert was a simpleton. Any accusation forced out of him, then twisted to show his lady in a bad light, would be considered suspect.
‘Is that all, Madame?’ Anselme insisted again, turning quickly to look at Friar Jean. ‘Think hard. It is not the aim of this court to entrap the accused by deceitful means.’
She bit her lip, narrowly avoiding blurting out the words that were on the tip of her tongue:
‘God will recognise his true people, and you are not among them.’
Instead she affirmed:
‘I can think of no other informant.’
Florin was ecstatic. Even before Agnès entered the interrogation chamber he knew it would never occur to her that her own daughter might be her most vehement accuser. The young girl, pampered by her uncle, had filled a page with well-turned phrases written in appallingly bad script containing enough poison to deal her mother a deathly blow. The girl’s accusations – a mishmash of heresy, sorcery and immoral behaviour – smacked of Eudes de Larnay’s scheming and Florin had not been taken in for a moment. On the contrary, he was certain of Agnès’s innocence. It was a source of comfort to him that such a pretty exterior could conceal so much malice, resentment and jealousy, for the flawed natures of the majority of his fellow creatures guaranteed him a long and fruitful career. He was already savouring the thought of Agnès’s devastation upon reading this ignoble calumny. Her own daughter, whom she had made every effort to protect, was prepared to send her to the stake without the slightest hesitation. What a delightfully amusing thought.
He approached Agnès and handed her the Gospels. She placed her hand on the enormous black book bound in leather.
‘Madame, do you solemnly swear before God and upon your soul to tell the truth?’
‘I do.’ She recalled the words Clément had taught her, and added: ‘May God come to my aid if I keep this vow and may He condemn me if I perjure myself.’
Florin gave a little nod to the notary, who rose to his feet and declared:
‘Agnès, Dame de Souarcy and resident of Manoir de Souarcy, having been read the accusation and having placed her right hand upon the Gospels and sworn to tell the whole truth concerning herself and others, will now proceed to be cross-examined.’
Florin thanked the notary with a polite gesture and studied Agnès at length, half closing his eyes, as though in prayer, before enquiring in a soft voice:
‘Madame de Souarcy, dear child, dear sister … Do you believe that Christ was born of a virgin?’
The cross-examination had begun with all its ruses and pitfalls; if she replied ‘I believe he was’ it could be interpreted as a sign that she was unsure. Clément had read her a list of all the trick questions. She replied in a steady voice:
‘I am certain that Christ was born of a virgin.’
A flicker of annoyance showed on Florin’s face. He continued:
‘Do you believe in the one Holy Catholic Church?’
Again, it was necessary to rephrase the sentence in order to prevent any unfavourable interpretation:
‘There exists no other church than the Holy Catholic Church.’
‘Do you believe that the Holy Ghost proceeds from the Father and the Son as we believe?’
She remembered Clément reading her the exact same sentence as though it were yesterday. Most of the accused responded in good faith, ‘I do.’ The Grand Inquisitor then pointed out that they were skilfully twisting the words in the manner of heretics and that by ‘yes, I do’ they really meant ‘yes, I believe that you believe it’ when in fact they believed the contrary.
‘It is clear that the Holy Ghost proceeds from the Father and the Son.’
Florin continued in this vein for a few minutes before realising that he would not catch her out. He declared in a loud voice for all to hear:
‘I see that Madame de Souarcy has learned her lesson well.’
Before he could interrupt her, she retorted:
‘To what lesson are you referring, Seigneur Inquisitor? Are you suggesting that faith in Jesus Christ is learned by rote like the alphabet? Surely we are born with it, of it. It is what we are. It illuminates and pervades us. Might you have learned it as another learns a meat recipe? I shudder to think.’
The colour drained from the inquisitor’s face and he clenched his jaw. He stared at her darkly through his soft eyes. It flashed through her mind that he would have hit her if there had been no witnesses.
The Dominican friar who had questioned her cleared his throat awkwardly. She had scored a victory over Florin and he would be merciless. But she had also gained some time and, without knowing why, the need to hold out as long as she could seemed imperative.
Florin, struggling to regain his composure, ordered her to be taken back to her cell. As she descended into her daily hell, she kept repeating to herself:
‘Knowledge is power. The most invincible weapon, dear sweet Clément.’
The moment the guard had pushed her into her cell and slammed the heavy door behind her, she fell to her knees, clasped her hands together and tried to comprehend where the strength to hold her head up high and stand firm had come from.
‘Clémence … My sweet angel … Thank you.’
Back in the interrogation room, Florin was seething. He could not understand how the week of fasting and solitary confinement he had inflicted on his prey had not worn down her last resistance. This female had questioned him, ridiculed him in front of two of his brothers. He reviled her and – why not admit it? – he was beginning to fear her.
After she had gone he tried to manoeuvre himself back into a position of strength by declaring in a passionate voice filled with regret:
‘Such a clever tongue is a sure sign of a perverse and devious mind, and points more clearly to heresy than any accusation. We have seen how these lost souls defend themselves thanks to the deviant teachings they receive, and how they try to confuse us with their antics. Women, who by their very nature are treacherous and scheming, are even more expert at it.’
Maître Gauthier Richer, the notary, gave a little nod of approval. In his view, the cunning, calculating nature of women made them prime recruits for the devil. However, Nicolas Florin sensed that his little speech had not entirely convinced the two Dominican friars who had been summoned as witnesses. In particular Brother Jean, who had not yet spoken and refused to catch the inquisitor’s eye.
Brother Anselme spoke again in a soft voice:
‘Let us reconsider, brother, my Lord Inquisitor, young Mathilde de Souarcy’s damning testimony.’
‘Damning indeed,’ Florin repeated, pleased by the choice of adjective. ‘In it Mademoiselle Mathilde …’
‘A direct reading of it might prove more enlightening, brother,’ interrupted Jean de Rioux, speaking for the first time.
Florin searched for a hint of suspicion, hesitation or even complicity, in the man’s voice, but found nothing to betray his witness’s attitude. A fresh concern was added to the rage the inquisitor had felt during Agnès’s declaration. The presence of religious witnesses belonging to the same order as the inquisitor made a mockery of justice. Indeed, Florin could not recall a single occasion during any trial where the former had contradicted the latter. This was the real reason why he had chosen not to summon lay witnesses. Even so, everything about Brother Jean de Rioux worried him: his thoughtful silence, his composure, his unwillingness to look Florin in the eye, even his hands, which were oddly robust for a man of letters approaching fifty. Moreover, Anselme de Hurepal appeared to seek his approval before each of his interventions. He chided himself: he was behaving like a frightened child again. It was only natural for these two fools to take their role seriously, but he would give them short shrift as he had the others.
He approached the table and plucked Mathilde de Souarcy’s statement from under a small pile of papers. He began reading aloud:
‘I, Mathilde Clémence Marie de Souarcy, only child of Madame Agnès de Souarcy …’
He did not see Jean glance at Anselme. The younger man interrupted on cue:
‘Pray, Brother Inquisitor … We are able to read. I believe that it would be most helpful if we acquainted ourselves with Mademoiselle de Souarcy’s words in quiet contemplation, the better to consider their significance.’
Florin almost uttered a curse. What! Did these two fools dare to cast doubt on his word? Brother Anselme insisted:
‘Are we to understand that this young girl is not yet of age?’
‘She will be soon – in a year’s time. Besides, the accusations of children against their parents are not only admitted but strongly encouraged regardless of their age. Indeed, who is better placed to judge corruption than those who live with it, who put up with it day in, day out?’
‘Indeed,’ the Dominican conceded, stretching out his hand. Florin reluctantly passed him the statement. Brother Anselme read it first and then handed it over to Brother Jean. The Dominican’s impassive expression and his slowness in reading exasperated Florin. Finally, Brother Jean looked up and remarked:
‘These words are enough to condemn her without further ado.’
The inquisitor felt as though a weight had been lifted off his shoulders and said, smiling:
‘Did I not tell you? She is guilty and although it pains me greatly to say it I hold out little hope of her salvation.’
His relief was short-lived.
‘Even so … Is it not extraordinary that this young girl who barely knows how to hold a quill and whose script is so clumsily executed expresses herself with such consummate skill? Let us see … “My soul suffers at the thought of the constant abominations committed by Madame de Souarcy, my mother, and her persistent sinfulness and deviance make me fear for her soul” or “The young chaplain, so devout the day he arrived, oblivious to this shadow of evil hanging over us …” or “God granted me the strength to resist living with evil despite my mother’s constant example …” Gracious me! What convincing rhetoric.’
Brother Jean raised his head and for the first time Florin’s eyes met his. The man’s gaze was infinite and he had the dizzying sensation of walking through a never-ending archway. Florin blinked involuntarily. Jean declared in a firm voice:
‘May I share our concern with you, Brother Inquisitor? Although we are only present in an … advisory capacity, we would find it very distressing if your purity and ardent faith were manipulated by false witnesses. We therefore strongly recommend that Mademoiselle de Souarcy be brought here to the Inquisition headquarters to be questioned before this assembly without her uncle being present.’
Florin hesitated for a fraction of a second. It was in his power to refuse this precautionary measure, but such a refusal would come back to haunt him. An unpleasant thought occurred to him. What if these two monks had been secretly placed as witnesses by Camerlingo Benedetti, to whom he owed his departure from Carcassonne and his new post at Alençon? What if they were in fact papal inspectors, like the ones sent by the Holy See to settle internal disputes in the monasteries or to ensure the smooth running of trials? Nicolas’s career was too promising for him to take any unnecessary risks. He was in no doubt that the wretched little Mathilde would stand by her testimony and that Eudes could be counted upon to help her. However, the Dominican’s request would mean a delay in proceedings. Still, the cloaked figure who had insisted Agnès de Souarcy must die had not specified any precise date.
The most prudent course of action would be to comply.
‘I am grateful to you, brother, for your concern. The knowledge that others are at hand to ensure the purity and integrity of the inquisitorial tribunal is invaluable to one such as I who presides in solitary judgement. Scribe … record the summoning of the witness and send for Mademoiselle de Souarcy.’
Another thought cheered him.
Once Mathilde had arrived he could arrange a confrontation between mother and daughter. What a delightful spectacle that promised to be.