Mathilde de Souarcy had arrived an hour earlier escorted by Baron de Larnay, who Nicolas Florin thought was in a lamentable state. His purple-streaked face suggested he had been drinking. The inquisitor was delighted. The signs of human weakness always put him in a good mood. The young girl’s sumptuous fur-lined coat, more suitable for a married woman, was evidence that her uncle treated her like an elegant kept woman. Agnan had left them waiting in a tiny, freezing-cold room.
Eudes de Larnay was growing increasingly uneasy, despite the outward display of calm he had affected in order not to scare his niece. He had gone out of his way to be charming to her during the long journey to Alençon, complimenting her on her figure, her appearance, her melodious voice. He had gone through her accusation with her and done his best to point out any possible pitfalls it contained. Finally, he had reminded her that at the slightest sign of any retraction the inquisitorial tribunal had the power to declare her a false witness, which would have dire consequences for them both.
The repulsively hideous young clerk who had shown them into the room reappeared. Eudes stood up as though to accompany his niece, knowing full well that she had been summoned alone. Agnan blushed and stammered:
‘Pray remain seated, my lord. Mademoiselle de Souarcy has been requested to appear alone before the tribunal.’
Eudes slumped back in his chair and cursed under his breath. The anxiety he had managed to suppress throughout the voyage was beginning to gain the upper hand. What if Mathilde let herself be intimidated by this Grand Inquisitor? What if he caught her out with clever arguments, on the finer points of doctrine? No. Florin would receive a generous payment once Agnès had been found guilty. The young girl’s claims were a godsend and it was not in his interests to cast doubt upon them. But who were these other judges? Had Nicolas Florin guaranteed their complicity out of his own pocket? After all, Mathilde might be desirable but she was a halfwit.
He had no reason to be alarmed. Mathilde was determined not to do anything that might send her back to that pigsty, Souarcy.
How appealing indeed was the pretty young damsel who was feigning coyness for their benefit; quite the little lady in her sumptuous dress of purple silk, set off by a diaphanous veil of shimmering azure. She stood with her head slightly bowed and her graceful hands clasped over her belly in an admirable show of false modesty. Florin silently approved Eudes de Larnay’s taste and wondered whether he had bedded her yet.
He walked over to the young girl and declared in a mellifluous voice:
‘Mademoiselle … Allow me firstly to praise your courage and unwavering faith. We are all able to imagine just how agonising this must be for you. Accusing a mother is a most painful thing, is it not?’
‘Less painful than witnessing her transgressions, it must be said.’
‘Quite so,’ said Florin ruefully. ‘I must now ask you to state your Christian name, surname, status and domicile.’
‘Mathilde Clémence Marie de Souarcy, daughter of the late Hugues de Souarcy and of Agnès Philippine Claire de Larnay, Dame de Souarcy. My uncle and guardian, Baron Eudes de Larnay, kindly took me in after my mother’s arrest.’
At this point the notary stood up to give his little recital:
‘In nomine Domini, amen. On this the eleventh 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, Mathilde Clémence Marie de Souarcy does appear before the venerable Brother Nicolas Florin, Dominican, Doctor in Theology and Grand Inquisitor appointed to the region of Alençon.’
The aforementioned inquisitor thanked him with a perfunctory smile and waited for him to sit down again on the bench. He glanced at the two Dominicans. Brother Anselme was staring at the young girl. As for Brother Jean, whose hands rested on the table before him, he appeared lost in the contemplation of his fingernails. Nicolas stifled his amusement: none of them had the slightest idea of the little tragedy he had arranged, which was about to be played out before them.
Nicolas Florin picked up the big black book that lay on the table and walked up to Mathilde until he was almost touching her:
‘Do you swear upon the Gospels to tell the whole truth, to conceal nothing from this tribunal and that your testimony is given freely without hatred or hope of recompense? Take heed, young lady, for by swearing this oath you commit your soul for eternity.’
‘I swear.’
‘Mademoiselle de Souarcy, you declared in a letter written by your own hand and dated the twenty-fifth of October, I quote: “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,” and then, “The young chaplain, so devout the day he arrived, oblivious to this shadow of evil hanging over us, has much changed under her influence.” While reassured in your regard, our concern for your mother grows when we read your words: “God granted me the strength to resist living with evil despite my mother’s constant example, but my heart bleeds and is in pain.” Are these your exact, unaltered words?’
‘Indeed, my Lord Inquisitor,’ Mathilde acknowledged in an infantile voice.
‘Do you wish to retract, tone down or in any other way modify your accusation?’
‘It is an exact reflection of the truth. Any change would be mistaken and a terrible sin.’
‘Very good. Scribe, have you recorded the witness’s consistency?’
The young man nodded timidly.
‘You are still so young, but I implore you to try your best to help us by remembering. When did you first notice that Madame de Souarcy’s soul was being contaminated by evil, and what were the signs?’
‘I cannot give a precise date … I must have been six, possibly seven. I …’ Mathilde lowered her voice to a whisper as though the enormity of the words she was about to pronounce made her breathless: ‘On several occasions I saw her spit the host into her handkerchief during Mass.’
A horrified murmur rose from the men seated around the table. Florin secretly praised Eudes de Larnay. He could hardly have thought up a better idea himself.
‘Are you certain your eyes were not playing tricks on you? It is so … monstrous.’
‘I am certain.’
The grate of a bolt, less rasping than usual. Agnès, exhausted and trembling from lack of food, mustered all her strength and stood up. The slightest effort left her breathless. She had spent the past few nights in a fever and the rancid smell of sweat, mixed with the stench of excrement from the latrine, made her feel sick. Fits of coughing had left her throat raw and she shivered uncontrollably. Her scalp itched so much that she could no longer tell whether it was simple dirt or if her head was crawling with lice. Her dress hung loosely from her body and, despite the coat Florin had given her in a show of kindness, the icy cold pierced her to the bone.
She immediately recognised the gaunt, unsightly face of Florin’s clerk, but could not recall the name Florin had used to address him on the evening they had arrived at the Inquisition headquarters – an eternity ago.
‘What …’
Her teeth were chattering feverishly and she was unable to end her sentence. The words seemed to elude her, like faint sparks flickering in her mind.
‘Hush, Madame. I am not supposed to be here. If he ever found out … I have been going over the evidence for your trial … It is a stain on our Holy Church, Madame, a parody, worse still, a wicked deception; every witness statement in your favour, including that of the Abbess of Clairets, my lord the Comte d’Authon, your chaplain Brother Bernard and many more, has gone missing. To begin with I thought they must have been mislaid, and I duly informed the Grand Inquisitor, only to be rewarded with his anger and contempt. He insisted that he had no recollection of them and made it clear that, if any evidence had gone missing, I was to blame …’
A remote feeling of relief. Agnès swayed; her head was spinning. It took all her strength of mind to comprehend what the young man with the weaselly face was telling her. And yet she had not forgotten the flicker of compassion that had rendered him almost beautiful.
‘He cleverly insinuated that, if I mentioned this loss to anyone, I would be held accountable and punished for my incompetence, adding that out of his compassion and affection for me he would say nothing. I do not fear punishment. My soul is free from sin. Do you know that I was afraid when this beautiful man chose me to be his clerk? I believed … I believed him to be an angel come down to earth. I believed that behind the repulsive façade others see he had sensed my purity and devotion. I believed that he had seen my soul as only angels can. Poor fool that I was. He delights in my ugliness for it makes him appear even more beautiful. He has a wicked soul, Madame. He threw out the testimony in your favour. Your trial is a tragic farce.’
‘I don’t … What is your name?’ she asked in a dry, hoarse voice.
‘Agnan, Madame.’
She cleared her throat:
‘Agnan. I am so weak that I can barely stand. He is … He is more than just a wicked soul. He is an incarnation of evil. He has no soul.’
She felt herself topple forward and just managed to steady herself by holding onto one of the wall rings used to chain the prisoners’ arms above their heads.
Agnan retrieved a lump of bacon and two eggs from his sleeveless cassock and handed them to her.
‘Eat these, Madame, I implore you. Gather your strength … And clean your face. What you are about to endure is … villainous.’
‘What …’
‘I can tell you no more. Farewell, Madame. My thoughts are with you.’
All of a sudden he had gone and the door was bolted so quickly after him that Agnès was unsure of having even seen him leave the cell. She stood trembling, clutching the precious bacon and eggs to her chest, unable to make any sense of his parting advice. Why should she wash her face? What did it matter if she appeared dirty and stinking before her judges, before Florin’s paid puppets?
The cross-examination had been going on for over an hour. Florin and Brother Anselme had alternated points of doctrine with questions of a more personal nature in an improvised duet.
‘And so,’ Florin insisted, ‘Madame de Souarcy your mother considered that Noah’s inebriation after the flood was sinful, even though he was pardoned for not having known of the effects of wine upon the mind, having never tasted it before?’
‘My mother thought him guilty anyway and managed to convince Brother Bernard.’
‘Did Madame de Souarcy believe the wisdom of her judgement to be above that of God? That constitutes blasphemy,’ the inquisitor concluded.
‘Yes,’ Mathilde acknowledged, adding ruefully, ‘but there is so much more, my Lord Inquisitor.’
Brother Anselme glanced at his fellow Dominican, who had raised his head for the first time since the beginning of the cross-examination and now prompted Anselme to speak with a blink of his eyes:
‘Mademoiselle de Souarcy, you write, and I quote: “The young chaplain, so devout the day he arrived, oblivious to this shadow of evil hanging over us, has much changed under her influence. During Mass he utters strange words in a language I cannot understand but which I know is not Latin.” Do you recognise these words as your own?’
‘I do. They are an exact description of the truth.’
‘You are aware that those who have turned from God and gone the way of the devil are sometimes rewarded with the power to speak in strange tongues in order to assist them in their dealings with the devil,’ Florin emphasised.
‘I did not know,’ Mathilde lied convincingly, her uncle having already stressed its importance.
‘It is a significant point, which may result in the arrest of Brother Bernard. In your opinion did the two accomplices engage in sinful invocations?’ the inquisitor insisted.
Mathilde pretended to hesitate before confessing in a tremulous voice:
‘I fear they did.’
‘Pray, be more precise, Mademoiselle. Your testimony must help us to shed light upon the true extent of their corruption. We will then be in a position to determine whether your mother is guilty of latria79 or of dulia,80 for we do not consider these two heresies in the same light, a further example of our extreme tolerance.’
Mathilde stifled a sigh of relief; two days ago she had no idea what these terms meant and would have been at a loss for words. Her uncle, fearing she might be questioned on this point, had explained them to her, emphasising the extreme seriousness of the crime of latria and insisting that her mother must be accused of it along with the other charges laid against her.
‘It pains me greatly to have to tell you. They invoked devils during Mass and recited loathsome prayers in a sinful language, as I wrote in my accusation, then they knelt and sang their praises.’
‘In front of you?’
The young girl trembled, seemingly on the brink of tears, as she stammered:
‘I believe my mother wished to lead me down the path to hell.’
More shocked gasps rose from the men seated on the bench.
Mathilde heaved a sorrowful sigh before adding:
‘One day … the servant whom my uncle had been kind enough to give us came to find me. She was so upset she could barely speak. I followed her to the little sacristy in the chapel. A pile of chickens lay there with their throats cut.’
‘So, they offered sacrificed animals!’ exclaimed Florin, who had been enjoying himself immensely since the cross-examination had begun.
This young girl was a sensation. Her uncle could turn her into a sideshow.
Mathilde nodded and continued:
‘In that case they are guilty of latria and this is no doubt the most painful confession I shall ever make.’
Brother Anselme studied her for a few moments before asking:
‘Do you believe that Sybille Chalis is to blame for Madame de Souarcy’s crimes against the faith?’
‘My mother repeatedly told me of her attachment to the girl and of the sorrow she had suffered at her death. Indeed, she always showed an exaggerated fondness for Sybille’s posthumous son, Clément.’
Florin chimed in:
‘The boy fled even before Madame de Souarcy’s time of grace was up, a clear sign of his overwhelming guilt. Pray continue, Mademoiselle.’
‘It is my belief that Sybille sowed the seeds of heresy in my mother, for which she will be damned, and that her son continued her work using all his guile.’
Just then, the door to the vast room opened and Agnan slipped in, hugging the walls until he reached the Grand Inquisitor’s armchair. He leaned over and whispered to him that Madame de Souarcy was on her way up the stairs to the interrogation room. Nicolas nodded and rose to his feet:
‘Mademoiselle, your bravery is equalled only by your purity. For this reason I do not hesitate to put you face to face with the enemy of your soul. I feel certain that the ensuing exchange will greatly enlighten the noble members of this tribunal, if indeed there is still any need.’
Mathilde stared at him, trying to grasp the meaning of what he had just said. Her puzzlement was fleeting. Her mother walked slowly into the room. No one else present noticed the deep sorrow in the looks exchanged by Brother Anselme and Brother Jean.
Agnès had heeded Agnan’s baffling advice after gobbling up the only proper food she had received since her imprisonment.
The bacon and eggs had given her a feeling of inner warmth she had not had for days, and her shivering had subsided. She had then managed to give her face a cursory wash and to braid her tangled hair, sticky with grime.
When she saw Mathilde, her pale face brightened and she smiled for the first time since her arrival. She rushed towards her daughter, arms outstretched. The young girl recoiled and turned away. Confused, Agnès came to a halt. She felt a shudder of panic. Had they arrested her daughter, too? Had Eudes perpetrated a second and no less heinous crime? She would kill him, even if it meant eternal damnation.
Suddenly she became aware of a pair of eyes boring into her, and she turned to face them. Brother Jean, the one she had never heard speak, was staring at her. It puzzled her when he shook his head slightly, but she would soon understand.
Florin walked towards her nimbly and gracefully, as though he were gliding over the flagstones.
‘Madame de Souarcy. Your dishonesty and the cunning eloquence you have displayed here will be of no use to you now. An angel has guided us to this pure young girl,’ he concluded, gesturing towards Mathilde.
Agnès looked at the inquisitor and then at her daughter. What was he saying? She would hold the girl in her arms. Everything would be all right then, she was sure. Life would return to normal then. She would protect her, she would do battle with them all, and the young girl would emerge triumphant. Agnès would not tolerate her being imprisoned, forced to endure the same suffering as her mother. It was only then that she noticed Mathilde’s clothes: the sumptuous dress of heavy silk, the veil so sheer she could not recall having seen one finer, her fingers laden with rings. Madame Apolline’s magnificent square turquoise, the Bohemian garnets she had worn on her index finger, her thumb ring studded with grey pearls.
She did her best to ignore the voices clamouring inside her head and the truth they were trying to foist upon her. One voice broke through her stubborn refusal to hear – that of Clémence – and said in a whisper: ‘Do you see the magnificent amethyst crucifix draped around her neck, my dear? It was left to Madame Apolline by her mother. She wanted to be buried with it. Why do you think Eudes has given it to your daughter? Those pretty wine-coloured beads bought her betrayal.’
The crucifix. Poor sweet Apolline. She would often kiss it while she prayed, as though somehow it restored some of the love of her mother, snatched from life so young.
A sigh in her head. Not hers. The voice’s.
Her own sigh rising up her throat. Agnès felt the floor give way beneath her feet. A cold, dark shadow descended over her thoughts. A stony silence filled her head. She collapsed. During the infinite moment when she saw the flagstones flying towards her, during the infinite moment it took for her to hit the ground, she repeated to herself: what have they done to you, my child? Damned. They are damned and will pay a hundredfold for what they have turned you into.
When she came to, she was in a tiny room heated by an ember pot. Agnan handed her an earthenware bowl whose contents she swallowed without saying a word. The fiery alcohol made her cough and suffused her chilled body with warmth.
‘The cider is strong but you will find it invigorating.’
‘How long …’
‘Nearly half an hour. You are not with child, are you, Madame?’
Agnès shook her head and murmured:
‘You offend me, Monsieur, I am a widow.’
‘Upon my soul, I beg your pardon. Madame …Mademoiselle your daughter has gone to take lunch with Baron de Larnay. The hearing will resume upon their return.’
She said in a voice she scarcely recognised, a calm, strangely resolute voice:
‘So, she was not arrested.’
‘No indeed, dear lady, she is your most fearsome accuser … I read her letter to Florin. It is pure poison, so sulphurous that it burns the eyes and fingers. I could not …’
‘I understand,’ she interrupted, ‘and I am grateful to you for your brave and daring attempt to warn me.’
She reached out and touched his hand. The young man blushed and grasped her fingers which he held to his lips. Choked with tears, he stammered:
‘I thank you, Madame, from the depths of my soul.’
‘But … it is I who am indebted to you. Why do you …’
‘No. You are living proof that my life has not been in vain, and for this I can never thank you enough. As God’s weak creature, I will have found greatness if my miserable efforts help to save innocent souls such as yours, for you are innocent, of that there is no doubt. One as ugly as I could hope for nothing more.’
Suddenly his expression changed. The emotion that had made his voice catch gave way to an unbending resolve:
‘Mademoiselle de Souarcy has learned her lesson well, but she is as foolish as she is wicked. This is your only weapon against her.’
‘I …’ Agnès tried to reply but Agnan cut her short:
‘There is no time, Madame. They will be sending for you shortly.’
He related her daughter’s damning testimony. She was choked with sobs at first. Then she tried to think who could have so thoroughly corrupted her daughter, and felt overcome by a murderous desire to kill the demon, to cleave his heart in two with her short sword, a gift from Clémence that had remained sheathed since her marriage. She envisaged him falling at her feet, a pool of blood spreading underneath him. That demon Eudes. That demon Florin. And then the truth she had been trying to avoid from the moment she first saw Mathilde in the interrogation room thrust itself upon her. Mathilde had joined the forces of evil, bartering her soul for a few colourful trinkets. As her mother she was at least partially to blame. Undoubtedly she had not prepared her daughter well enough, had not provided her with the means to resist the frivolous yet powerful allure of such trivial things. Perhaps she had lavished too much care and attention on Clément’s education.
I love you so dearly, Clément. Live, Clément. Live for me.
We are so alike, Clément. Why are you the only light that enters my cell, the one I cling to in order to stay sane? Live, I beg you. Live for my life’s sake.
‘It appals me to be the bearer of this cruel blow, Madame,’ Agnan apologised.
‘No, Monsieur. On the contrary, you have made me feel that I am not alone in this hateful place, and whatever becomes of me I cannot thank you enough for that. You have helped me prepare for an event I would never have dared envisage. Thank you, Agnan.’
He lowered his eyes, profoundly grateful that such a beautiful lady would call him by his Christian name.
When Agnès came face to face with Mathilde, she was immediately struck by the change in her. Where was the little girl she had brought into the world, had brought up – admittedly fickle and given to tantrums and yet so gay? Before her stood a little woman – a little woman who was no longer her daughter, who was intent upon sending her to the stake. The hatred and resentment she felt for her mother boiled down to a few bits of finery, a few glistening trinkets on her fingers. Agnès had hoped the young girl might try to avoid her gaze. She would have seen in it evidence of some lingering affection or regret, perhaps. Instead Mathilde stared brazenly at her mother with her light-brown eyes, raised her head and pursed her lips.
What followed had been a nightmare skilfully staged by Florin. The horrors, the absurdities Mathilde had uttered in order to seal her mother’s fate had left Agnès speechless, unable to respond. Thus, if the flesh of her flesh were to be believed, in addition to heresy she was guilty of sorcery and lechery. A strange torpor had overtaken Agnès. She had refused to fight back or even to defend herself. When, after each new lethal outburst from her daughter, Florin had asked her triumphantly: ‘What have you to say to that, Madame?’ she had limited herself to replying repetitively: ‘Nothing.’
What did the euphoria she sensed in Nicolas Florin matter? Or the brief smiles of encouragement he gave to Mathilde? Nothing. Nothing now.
‘If we have understood correctly, you claim that Brother Bernard sprinkled his prayers and sermons with words from a strange, demonic tongue?’ the Grand Inquisitor insisted.
‘Yes. It certainly wasn’t Latin, still less French.’
‘Did your mother also speak in this evil tongue?’
‘I heard her use it, though not as often as the chaplain.’
‘It is common knowledge that women have less of an aptitude for languages than men.’
Maître Richer nodded as he did whenever Florin made a spiteful remark about the fair sex. His ill-tempered little face contorted with petty satisfaction.
‘Mademoiselle de Souarcy, I should like to refer back to Clément, who has so … opportunely disappeared,’ the Grand Inquisitor continued. ‘Do you think that he too was seduced by evil?’
Mathilde, weary after two hours of cross-examination, felt a renewed vitality. She made a supreme effort to hide the instinctive hatred she felt for that loathsome wart of a boy. In a voice filled with sorrow, she declared:
‘I am sure of it. After all, he could have been contaminated in his mother’s womb.’
Why hadn’t her uncle Eudes anticipated her being questioned about that vile brat? She paused for a moment before elaborating:
‘He, too, spoke in that sacrilegious tongue, and with consummate ease. Indeed, now I come to think of it I am convinced he was the sly but determined architect of my mother’s downfall.’
Agnès felt a pain, like a knife striking her chest. She began to stir as though from a long sleep. Clément. Mathilde was attacking Clément. A sudden rush of energy caused the Dame de Souarcy to stand bolt upright. Never!
‘Ah! The undeniable proof!’ Florin boomed. ‘A trio of devil worshippers. I thank eternal Providence for having allowed us to discover them before they were able to poison innocent souls. The boy must be found, arrested and brought before us.’
All of a sudden, the vicelike grip that had been choking Agnès dissolved. Her body forgot the weeks of imprisonment and starvation, the feverish nights. Mathilde, her daughter, her own flesh and blood, not content to manoeuvre her into the merciless clutches of the Inquisition, was throwing Clément into the jaws of those ruthless beasts. Never!
She raised her head and stared coldly at her daughter. Pronouncing each syllable crisply, she retorted:
‘My daughter scarcely knows how to spell in French. She has such difficulty reading her prayers that I have been forced to make her learn them by heart. As for the letter she supposedly wrote, there is no doubt in my mind that it was dictated to her or that she copied it out. Since she does not understand a word of Latin, not even dog Latin, how could she be fit to judge the strangeness of any language, whether profane or sacred?’
Florin tried desperately to counter-attack, but could only hiss:
‘A feeble defence, Madame!’
‘It’s a foul lie!’ Mathilde screeched.
A slow, deep voice boomed through the room. The others all turned to face Brother Jean, who had risen to his feet and was speaking for the second time during the hearing:
‘Te deprecamur supplices nostris ut addas sensibus nescire prorsus omnia corruptionis vulnenera. How would you render this, Mademoiselle?’
Mathilde decided that this was the moment to burst into tears. She stammered:
‘I am … exhausted. I can’t go on …’
‘What has become of your recently renewed vigour? How would you render this very simple phrase, Mademoiselle? Did you at least recognise it as Latin and not a profane language?’
A silence descended. Florin searched desperately for an argument, cursing himself for getting carried away by his predilection for games. Incapable of remaining annoyed with himself for very long, he quickly turned his rage on Mathilde. What a fool, what an idiot to have mentioned Latin when she couldn’t understand a word of it!
‘Madame,’ said Brother Jean, turning to Agnès, ‘how would you render this sentence?’
‘We beg of You humbly to endow us with the unwavering ability to shun all that might corrupt the holy purity.’
‘Notary, in accordance with the precautions laid down by the inquisitorial procedure, which state that if any part of an accusation is shown to be false the entire accusation must be called into question, I challenge that of Mademoiselle Mathilde Clémence Marie de Souarcy. I have no doubt that our judicious Grand Inquisitor will endorse this precaution.’
Brother Jean waited. Florin clenched his jaw in anger. Finally he spoke:
‘Indeed. The accusation of this young woman is called into question.’ He struggled with the urge to hurl himself at Mathilde and beat her, adding: ‘Scribe, make a record of the fact that this tribunal has expressed grave doubts regarding Mademoiselle de Souarcy’s sincerity and is concerned that she may have already perjured herself. Write down also that the same tribunal reserves the right to bring charges against her at a later date.’
Mathilde cried out:
‘No …!’
She took a few paces towards the inquisitor, her hands outstretched, and stumbled. Agnan rushed to grab her and led her outside to where Eudes was, rashly, savouring his imminent victory.
Brother Jean tried to catch Agnès’s eye, but she was far away. She had plunged into a world of unimaginable pain. She had lost Mathilde and doubted she would ever find her again.
She clung to her last source of hope, of strength: Clément was out of harm’s way, for now.
‘The fool!’ Eudes bawled. ‘The unbelievable fool! Why didn’t he warn me that he intended to put you face to face with Agnès? I would have dissuaded him … You are no match for her.’
Jostled by the movement of the wagon rolling down the road alongside Perseigne Forest, which led to the eponymous abbey, Mathilde had not stopped crying and snuffling into her deceased aunt’s lace handkerchief, embroidered with the letter A in pretty sea-green thread. Her uncle’s last remark cut her to the quick and she stared up at him, her face puffy from weeping. How pink and unsightly she looked, he thought, just like a piglet – a shapely piglet, perhaps, but a piglet all the same.
‘What was that you said, Uncle? Am I no match for my mother?’
This was not the moment to upset the little woman. After all, until Agnès had been found guilty he remained her provisional guardian.
‘What I mean, my dear girl,’ he corrected himself, patting her hand, ‘is that you are still young and relatively ignorant of the shrewd tactics used by certain people. It is a great credit to you that you still have scruples.’
‘How true, Uncle,’ agreed Mathilde obsequiously.
‘Your mother … well, we both know her well … She is cunning and manipulative … In short, I admire you for having stood up to her. What an ordeal it must have been for a young girl such as you.’
Mathilde was slowly beginning to feel better. Once again she was cast as her mother’s victim – a role she liked so much that she believed in it more and more.
‘Yes. But …’
‘I could have shown that clown of an inquisitor which questions would be favourable to us! But no, the fool was intent on playing his own little game,’ interrupted Eudes, still annoyed.
‘Something the inquisitor said worried me, Uncle. He threatened to charge me with perjury.’
Had it not been for that depleted mine of his, which was ruining his financial as well as his political prospects, he would have happily left her to her fate.
‘What of it? Another two hundred pounds will see to it. Anything to please you, dear niece.’
‘Another?’
Eudes attempted to extricate himself:
‘Yes. Two hundred pounds here, another two hundred pounds there, a hundred more for the abbey, and so on …’
Mathilde realised in a flash that her mother’s trial had been arranged from the beginning, paid for by her uncle. The knowledge comforted her, made her feel secure. The power of money was so tremendous that she determined never to be without it again, at whatever cost.