Nicolas Florin studied the Comte Artus d’Authon, seated on the other side of his tiny desk, with an air of bored politeness.
‘I regret, Seigneur, that since you are not a direct relative of Madame de Souarcy I cannot allow you to visit her. I assure you that it pains me not to be able to indulge you in this matter, but I am obliged to follow strict rules.’
Florin waited to see the effect of this barely concealed snub. Artus remained calm, contriving not to betray his simmering rage to the inquisitor. The evil rat was revelling in his power.
‘I understand that Madame de Souarcy’s cross-examination has already begun.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you suppose the trial will go on for long?’
‘I fear it will, Seigneur Comte. But do not ask me any further details. The inquisitorial procedure, as you know, is shrouded in the utmost secrecy. We are most keen to preserve the honour and dignity of those brought before us until formal proof of their guilt has been established.’
‘Oh, I do not doubt for an instant that Madame de Souarcy’s honour and dignity are of the utmost concern to you,’ retorted Artus d’Authon.
Florin clasped his hands on his black robe and waited to see what the powerful lord would do next. Would he attempt to bribe him as he had during their first meeting? Would he threaten him or beg him? And he, Florin, which would he prefer? A combination of all three, of course.
But instead of this, Artus’s fleshy lips parted in a strange smile, a smile that bared his teeth. Suddenly he stood up, much to the surprise of Florin, who automatically followed suit.
‘Since, as I anticipated, my request has been in vain, I would not want to waste any more of your time. I therefore bid you goodbye.’
After the Comte had left, Florin sat brooding. What had in fact occurred? Why had the arrogant fool not begged him? Had he not received a stinging insult? He certainly felt the blood rush to his cheeks as if he had just been slapped. Who did that Comte think he was! So, he wanted to see his female, did he? Well, he should come back in a few days’ time. Since she had failed to confess under cross-examination her torture would begin the very next day.
Seized by a murderous rage, he sent his desk flying. Stacks of files and notes lay scattered about the office. He shrieked:
‘Agnan, come here this instant!’
The young clerk rushed in and gazed incredulously at the disarray. Florin growled ominously:
‘Don’t just stand there, you fool, pick it up!’
It was almost none when Francesco de Leone, who was standing in a porch, saw Nicolas Florin leave the Inquisition headquarters. The Dominican responded to the polite greetings of a few passers-by with an unassuming smile then turned into Rue de l’Arche. Leone pulled his cowl over his face and straightened the short, waisted peasant’s tunic he was wearing underneath the thick leather apron of a smith. He fell in behind the inquisitor, maintaining a few yards’ distance between them. A grubby-looking boy passed him by, then slowed down all of a sudden and sauntered along with his arms behind his back, gazing up at the surrounding buildings. Leone wondered for a moment whether he wasn’t up to some mischief.
The knight had no real plan – as he had assured Hermine after her performance as the wealthy Marguerite Galée, eager to send her father-in-law to a better world. He was not sure whether he was hoping to discover compromising evidence that would force Florin to back down or waiting for a situation to arise that would require killing him. Leone was aware that he was allowing himself to be guided by the other man’s actions, which might or might not lead to his death. This was not a hypocritical attempt to evade responsibility. Leone had been responsible for many deaths, but had never chosen his victims. Florin, however undeserving, would enjoy what he had been unable to offer the others: a private judgement of God. If he were not meant to die, he would be spared. This was what the Hospitaller sincerely believed.
The inquisitor lengthened his stride, as though he were in a hurry to get somewhere. Perhaps, also, now that they were further away from the Inquisition headquarters he was no longer worried lest somebody question his haste. Curiously enough, the little beggar boy had also quickened his pace and was keeping the same distance between himself and Florin. Leone’s soldierly instinct alerted him.
Florin turned right and walked up towards Rue des Petites-Poteries. All of a sudden, he slipped into Rue du Croc. Leone hurried after him but by the time he reached the cobbler’s shop on the corner, Florin had vanished and he found himself face to face with the little rascal who was looking equally bemused. Just as the boy was about to run off, Leone leapt forward and grabbed him by the tunic.
‘Who are you following?’
The knight took hold of the boy’s ear and, leaning over, whispered:
‘You were following the Dominican, weren’t you? I’m a man of little patience so don’t lie to me. Who sent you?’
The boy panicked. He certainly didn’t look very friendly, this smith. He tried unsuccessfully to wriggle free from his grasp.
‘Let go of me!’ the boy protested, trembling with fear.
Putting on a threatening voice, Leone said:
‘If you tell me the truth, I’ll give you three silver coins and let you go. However, if you continue lying to me, I’ll give you a good thrashing and throw you in the River Sarthe.’
The little urchin’s eyes filled with tears at the thought, but he replied astutely:
‘And why should I believe a smith when he says he has three silver coins? I’ve already got one from my client and he promised me another when I tell him what he wants to know, but he looks like a real lord.’
Without letting go of the boy’s ear, Leone reached into his purse with his other hand and took out three coins.
‘All right,’ the child muttered. ‘But let go of my ear. You’re hurting me, you brute.’
‘If you attempt to run off …’
The child interrupted him, shrugging his shoulders:
‘Why would I choose a dip in the Sarthe when I can earn proper money?’
Leone stifled a grin and released his ear, but remained ready to pounce at the boy’s slightest movement.
‘Who paid you to spy?’ Leone asked him again.
‘He offered me two silver coins to follow the Dominican.’
‘Do you know his name?’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Very tall. A big man, bigger than you. And dark, with dark eyes, too. He wears his hair shoulder-length and dresses in fine clothes and carries a sword. A powerful man by the looks of him. I’d say he’s a baron, possibly even a count.’
‘What age?’
‘A lot older than you.’
‘What exactly did he ask you to do?’
‘To follow the inquisitor without being seen and find out where he lives.’
What was Artus d’Authon doing mixed up in this affair, for Leone was almost certain it was he? His aunt Éleusie de Beaufort had alluded briefly to Agnès de Souarcy’s meeting with her overlord just before the young woman’s arrest.
‘Where are you supposed to meet him?’
‘At a tavern called La Jument-Rouge, it’s …’
‘I know where it is.’
Leone handed the boy the coins, which quickly disappeared under his tunic.
‘I advise you not to go back and warn your client in order to try to get the other silver coin or I’ll …’
‘I know … you’ll throw me in the Sarthe!’
The boy turned on his heel and vanished before Leone had decided what to do next.
Was Artus d’Authon a friend or foe? Now was not the time to worry about that.
Which of the buildings had Nicolas Florin slipped into? Leone did not believe that he had discovered he was being followed. He could do nothing but wait, crouched in the shadow of a nearby wall. Sooner or later the man would have to come out again.
A good half-hour went by, during which the knight managed to empty his mind of the endless calculations, theories, questions. Not thinking is a strenuous and exhausting exercise for a man of thought. Accepting nothingness, inviting it, becoming the void, is to allow oneself to experience infinity. Time then passes in a random way. The little barefoot girl who lifts her thick cotton dress, tied with a piece of string at the waist, and squats in the gutter to empty her bladder as she stares at you fills the whole universe. How much time passed before she stood up and ran off? A little ball of hemp blown across the cobblestones comes to a stop then rolls on for a few feet+ before stopping again then rolling again, until it reaches a wall where somebody’s foot treads on it and carries it who knows where; for a few split seconds that ball becomes the most important thing in the world.
Francesco de Leone almost didn’t recognise the beautiful Nicolas. He cut a dashing figure. He was without question one of the finest-looking creatures Leone had ever seen. His willowy body was perfectly suited to lay clothes. Indeed, it appeared Florin was well acquainted with the latest town fashions. He had swapped the black habit and long white cape of the Dominicans for a silk shirt, on top of which he wore a short tunic that set off his dark-purple leggings and breeches. Elegant Parisians referred to these as hauts-de-chausses and bas-de-chausses. Over his tunic he wore a bodice lavishly embroidered with gold thread, and a jacket of fine dark-green wool gathered at the waist by a belt covered in gold work and with slits in the sleeves to allow a glimpse of the bodice. The whole was topped off by a greatcoat, open at the front and sides, that would have been the envy of the finest lords, and a hood of a softer green than the jacket, which concealed his tonsure, and whose pointed end he wore hanging down in the style of the young dandies at court.
Francesco de Leone recalled the clothes they were given when they joined the Hospitaller order. Besides bed and table linen they received two shirts, two pairs of leggings, two pairs of breeches, a bodice, a fur-trimmed jacket and two coats, one with a fur lining for winter, as well as a cape and a belted tunic coat. Only when the clothes or linen became threadbare did they take them to the administrator, who would duly replace them. In exchange they handed over their fortune to the order, and in Francesco’s case this had been a substantial one inherited from his mother. And yet he had no doubt that the bequest would have pleased the remarkable woman who had given birth to him. As for him, leaving behind his worldly goods had been such an immense relief that he had spent the whole night following this final rite of passage wide awake and in a state of bliss. Clearly the inquisitor did not share his fondness for self-denial.
Claire. As he grew older so the memory of his mother seemed to grow clearer. Her elder sister, Éleusie de Beaufort, resembled her, though she was less pretty, less vivacious. Small things – a made-up poem, a beautiful flower, a child’s words, the unusual colour of a ribbon – would elicit his mother’s ready laugh. And yet that pale and lofty brow concealed such intelligence and wisdom, some of which Leone liked to believe he had inherited. Added to this was her intuition, which Leone had not been endowed with. He saw in this the price he had to pay for his physical strength and masculinity. She had ‘sensed’ the twisting currents sweeping along all their lives long before they became apparent. As a small boy Leone had been convinced that this mysterious gift came from the angels. Had she also sensed her own slaughter and that of her daughter at Saint-Jean-d’Acre? No. It was unthinkable, for if she had had such a premonition, she would have escaped in time with her child.
There was so much he did not know about that beautiful, noble woman who had held him in her arms and called him ‘her brave knight of the white cross’ when he was only five or six years old. Had she already known that he would one day join the Hospitaller order? How was that possible? Had they not simply been loving words from a mother to her son?
Lost in such sweet, painful memories, Leone realised just in time that he was stalking his prey too closely, and running the risk of the other man turning round and seeing him. Florin must not be able to recognise him later on. He slowed his pace.
Did the inquisitor rent a bachelor’s apartment in this well-to-do, discreet part of town where he could transform himself at his leisure and perhaps even keep the company of ladies?
He had lined his purse well with the blood of others.
Nicolas Florin was hurrying now. He entered one of the neighbourhoods where the passers-by leave as dusk sets in and the peaceable atmosphere dissolves as another type of creature comes to life. The modest corbelled dwellings appeared in places to form arches above the alleyways. The front of each building was occupied by stalls or workshops. Leone began to notice women whose appearance betrayed their calling*, as required by the Church and civic authorities. Their gaudy, low-cut dresses and the absence of the type of jewellery and belts worn by burghers’ wives or noblewomen, which they were prohibited from wearing, marked them out as purveyors of the flesh. Leone deduced that there was a bordel nearby, as in the big cities.82 A strumpet, scarcely older than fourteen, approached Florin. He sized her up from head to toe as he would a horse. The knight flattened himself in a doorway and observed the transaction taking place a few yards away, hardly daring to imagine what the poor girl would be put through in exchange for a few paltry coins, for he was certain that Florin’s sexual preferences would also entail violence and torture. They finally moved away, disappearing into a hemp-and-linen draper’s stall that must have fronted a house of ill repute.
A good half-hour passed before the inquisitor re-emerged alone, wearing a look of sly satisfaction, and Leone wondered whether the poor girl was still able to stand. The pimps who supplied the wine and candles never interfered with their customers’ antics, however abusive, so long as they got their money.
Florin walked back the same way he had come, Leone following behind, only instead of turning into Rue des Petites-Poteries he went straight on until he reached Rue de l’Ange where he slipped through the doorway of a well-to-do town house. Leone waited a few moments before approaching. The ground and first floors were made of stone with a half-timbered second floor above. The newly tiled roof had no doubt replaced the original thatched one, suggesting that the owner was extremely wealthy. The little dormer windows were wooden and protected by oilcloth, and all the interior shutters were closed, apart from those on the first floor. The pipes draining dirty water from the kitchen onto the street were dried up, as were those funnelling human waste into sewers or pits. The handsome-looking dwelling seemed to have been recently abandoned.
Florin must have rented a tiny room in Rue du Croc where he could transform himself into a rich burgher and then come to this smart house. But who did it belong to and why did nobody appear to be living there?
It took Leone one hour and much lying to find out the answers to these questions from the various shop owners on Rue des Petites-Poteries and Rue de l’Ange. Monsieur Pierre Tubeuf, a rich draper, having been very opportunely found guilty of heresy and dealings with the devil, had had his property confiscated by the Inquisition. Terrified that any objection on their part might prompt the inquisitor to charge them with the same crimes, his wife and two children had fled the town. Leone had no doubt that this was what would have happened. Florin had awarded himself a magnificent house at the cheapest price.
The knight left the neighbourhood. Now he knew where Agnès’s torturer lived.
Artus d’Authon waited, the barely touched cup of buttered ale in front of him. What was the child doing? He should have reported back long ago. The Comte made a supreme effort to suppress his anger and above all his despair. Had the little beggar boy tricked him? And yet the prospect of another silver coin should have been incentive enough. Perhaps Florin had suspected that he was being trailed and the boy had given up. He felt a flicker of fear for the boy’s safety, but reassured himself. Those young street urchins were quick on their feet and catching one would be no easy task. He raged against himself. What could he do now? Florin would recognise him instantly if he took it into his head to follow him. He cursed his ineptitude as a man of honour. He was capable of provoking a duel, fighting and winning, yet scheming and subterfuge were foreign to him, and he felt powerless against a sly snake such as the inquisitor. His chief bailiff, Monge de Brineux, was too much like him to be of any use. The solution came to him in a flash. Clément! Florin had never seen the boy and Clément had already shown that he possessed both courage and intelligence. Moreover, he would do anything to save his beloved mistress. Artus felt a great sense of relief and celebrated by swigging back his beer. He would return to Alençon with Clément the day after tomorrow. Come evening, Florin would be back where he belonged – in hell. The Comte would invoke the judgement of God, and Agnès would be freed, her accuser having been struck down by the hand of God. He leapt up, almost overturning the table, and rushed out to the astonishment of the other customers.
The knight Leone found Rue des Carreaux, which led to his meeting place at the Bobinoir83 Tavern, Rue de l’Étoupée. He was guided there by the crier84 whose job it was to announce the price of wine served at the tavern.
Landlords were commonly named after their establishments and Monsieur Bobinoir, who was no exception, looked up as the knight walked in and wondered what a smith was doing coming into his tavern, which was a meeting place for haberdashers, a guild that was growing in wealth and status and whose members were now considered to be on a par socially with the burghers. Maître Bobinoir paused. His regular customers did not care to rub shoulders with a member of the lowly professions. Then again, as long as the man was not a tanner whose clothes were impregnated with the stench of rotting flesh, or even a common dyer, he did not feel obliged simply to ask him to leave. Besides, something about the man’s appearance intrigued Monsieur Bobinoir – a sort of effortlessness, an ease devoid of arrogance. No doubt the other customers sitting at the tables that day felt it too, for after giving him a second glance they quickly returned to their conversations. The smith looked around the room for a place to sit then turned silently to the landlord, who motioned with his chin towards an isolated table.
When Monsieur Bobinoir went over to take his order, he made a point of speaking in a loud voice so as to reassure his regular customers:
‘We keep good company here, smith, and Bobinoir is pleased to welcome you today. If tomorrow you still have a thirst, be a good fellow and slake it in the tavern serving people in your own trade.’
The smith’s deep-blue eyes gazed up at him and Maître Bobinoir, gripped by a sudden anxiety, had to resist the urge to draw back in order to avoid being humiliated in front of his customers. And yet slowly the man’s face creased into a smile:
‘You are too kind, Monsieur Bobinoir, and I thank you. I accept your hospitality and will remember that it is an exception.’
‘There’s a good chap,’ the landlord boomed, pleased at having more or less stood his ground. ‘Will you take some wine?’
‘Yes, bring your finest. I am waiting for a friend … a Dominican friar. Like me he is not a haberdasher, but …’
‘A friar!’ interrupted Maître Bobinoir, then pronounced solemnly, ‘I am honoured to receive him in my establishment.’
A few moments later, Jean de Rioux, the younger brother of Eustache de Rioux, who had been Leone’s godfather in the Hospitallers, walked into the tavern. Monsieur Bobinoir now began to fuss over the Dominican, whose arrival he saw as open confirmation that his establishment attracted the salt of the earth and was far from being a den of iniquity.
As his old friend approached the table, the knight stood up to embrace this courageous, honourable soul who had not hesitated to lower himself to spying if it meant remaining true to his faith and that of his departed brother.
‘I am angry at fate, Jean, for my pleasure at seeing you after all these years is spoiled by the circumstances that drove me to request your help. But, most of all, I am eternally grateful to you for not hesitating to offer it, despite your duty of obedience to your order.’
‘Francesco, Francesco … What a joy to behold you, too! As for my help, it is only a mark of the friendship and respect I have always felt for you. Eustache thought of you as a son, and you are like a younger brother to me. No request of yours could be anything but pure, which is why upon receiving your brief missive I did not hesitate for a second to offer you my help, likewise Brother Anselme.’
Jean fell silent as Maître Bobinoir approached and set down a cup of frothy beer in front of him. He nodded politely to the man and waited for him to leave before continuing in a hushed voice:
‘As for my duty of obedience to my order, it can never outweigh that which I owe to God. Do not think, dear Francesco, that just because we willingly submit to the rule we become sheep. Do not think that we cease to have minds of our own. Many of us, Dominicans and Franciscans alike, question the bloody path that the Inquisition has taken. What was once firm conviction has turned into ferocious zeal. Defending the faith is one thing, coercive violence another, and it makes a mockery of the Gospels.’
‘It was Benoît XI’s intention to rein in the Inquisition.’
Jean de Rioux looked at him, incredulous. ‘And revoke Innocent IV’s papal bull Ad extirpanda?’
‘Precisely.’
‘But the political risk would have been enormous.’
‘Benoît was aware of that.’
‘A rumour is spreading that he died a natural death from internal bleeding,’ Jean de Rioux added.
‘It was to be expected … And yet he was murdered, he died from eating poisoned figs,’ corrected the knight. ‘The defenders of the imperial Church are rid of an embarrassing reformer and Christianity is deprived of one of its purest souls.’
They sipped their drinks in silence, then the Dominican spoke again in an almost inaudible voice:
‘What you tell me, brother, increases the unease I feel and yet am unable to define. Something is being prepared, something whose true nature is still unclear but which goes far beyond fraudulent trials in exchange for money. Florin feels invulnerable, and that cannot be explained merely by the fee he will receive from that oafish baron.’
‘You and I have reached the same conclusion. Only I believe I am able to put a name and a face to this menacing shadow.’
‘Who?’
‘The camerlingo Honorius Benedetti.’
‘Surely you are not suggesting that he is behind the sudden death of our beloved late lamented Benoît XI?’
‘I am almost sure of it, although I have no way of proving it and doubtless never will.’
They parted company an hour later at the top of the tavern steps. Jean had told Leone in detail about the cross-examination of Agnès de Souarcy that he had attended. He was in no doubt as to the trumped-up nature of the absurd charges and of the trial itself. Jean had made special mention of the shameful role played by Agnès’s daughter.
They had to act quickly. The preliminary questioning would not go on for much longer, especially now that Florin’s key witness, the malicious but foolish Mathilde de Souarcy, had made such a bad impression upon the judges.
They shook hands upon parting and Jean held on to Leone’s. The knight hesitated for a second before asking:
‘Jean, my friend, do you believe as Eustache did, and as I do now, that no act in defence of the Light can be considered profane?’
‘It is my firm conviction, and it would hurt me if you were to doubt it,’ the Dominican murmured solemnly.
Leone handed him a small package wrapped in a piece of cloth, and advised:
‘Do not open it here, brother. It contains your preferential treatment and no doubt Agnès de Souarcy’s salvation. There is a note with it. If you feel that … Well, the content of the note may endanger your life and I would never forgive myself if …’
A faint smile lit up the furrowed face that reminded Leone of his Hospitaller godfather.
‘You know as well as I do, Francesco, that danger is a fickle mistress. She rarely appears where we think she will – hence her allure. Give me the package.’