The horses were exhausted and their riders scarcely any fresher by the time they reached the town of Alençon at dusk. The destrier, Ogier, was tossing his head and snorting; a cloud of vapour surrounded the stallion’s flared nostrils and his chest heaved with the effort of breathing. Clément’s mare, Sylvestre, quivered with tiredness, almost prancing as she walked, as though she were nervous of stumbling. Artus patted the neck of his magnificent mount and murmured:
‘Steady! Steady! My brave steed. Our journey is done and I have found fine lodgings for you. My heartfelt thanks, Ogier. You are an even hardier beast than when I broke you in.’
The horse raised his head, shaking his pitch-black mane and flattening his ears in exhaustion.
Clément jumped down from his mare and stroked her muzzle – he was no less grateful to her for this punishing race against time, which was running short.
The ostler arrived to take the exhausted animals to be groomed. He tugged roughly on Ogier’s bit and the horse threatened to rear up.
‘Whoa, you oaf! Nobody manhandles my faithful steed’s mouth like that!’ Artus shouted. ‘Show him a little respect or he’ll buck you at the first opportunity, and quite rightly. The same goes for the mare. Be careful. You can’t ask an animal to give its all and then treat it like a beast of burden. These creatures have nearly killed themselves to get us here at breakneck speed. Treat them in the manner they deserve – and for which I am paying you handsomely – or you’ll have me to answer to.’
The ostler did not need telling twice and gently cajoled the two mounts until they consented to walk on.
Clément followed Artus d’Authon through the streets of Alençon. How tall he was and what big steps he took, the child thought, as he did his best to keep up. All of a sudden Artus stopped, almost causing Clément to slam into his back.
‘He should come out soon. I’ll point him out to you. Follow him, and when you’ve discovered where he lodges make your way directly to La Jument-Rouge,’ he said, gesturing towards a nearby tavern, ‘and don’t try anything, do you hear?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘… I’m warning you not to disobey me and try anything foolish, Clément. You may be brave, but you’re not big or strong enough to take him on. I am. You will greatly harm your lady if you do not follow my instructions. Do you understand that if he slips through our fingers tonight, tomorrow Madame Agnès will die a thousand deaths?’
‘I know, my lord. And then will you kill him?’
‘I will. He has left me no other choice. It is a small matter in the end and I probably should have done it sooner. I could kick myself for hoping I could convince him.’
The Inquisition headquarters were strangely abuzz with activity when they arrived. Clerks were darting in and out of the place and men-at-arms with sullen faces rushed about for no apparent reason. Amid the general mayhem, the Comte d’Authon, flanked by Clément, walked towards the main entrance and went in. A skinny young friar, whom Artus did not recognise, came running up to them.
‘M-my lord, my lord,’ he stammered, giving a quick bow. ‘He is dead. God be praised for doing justice. The wicked beast is dead.’
Sensing the Comte’s bewilderment, he added:
‘Agnan, my name is Agnan. I was chief clerk to that evil inquisitor. I was there when you came and tried to reason with him. I knew it was a waste of precious time. But it doesn’t matter any more. He died as he lived, like a wicked sinner.’ Agnan almost shrieked: ‘God has passed judgement! His ineffable verdict has come down to earth like a revelation. The innocent dove, Madame de Souarcy, is free. Nicolas Florin’s other victims, too. The judgement of God requires all his cases to be closed, permanently.’
‘How did he die? When?’
‘Last night. At the hands of a passing drunkard. It seems he invited the man into his house, the house he extorted from some poor soul whom he tortured to death. There was a struggle, ending in that devil’s murder. Monsieur … We have witnessed a miracle … God intervened to save Madame de Souarcy, and … but it comes as no surprise to me. I looked into that woman’s eyes, she reached out and touched me with her hand and I understood …’
‘What did you understand?’ Artus asked calmly, for the young man’s exalted speech troubled him.
‘I understood that she was … different. I understood that this woman was … unique. I am unable to describe it in words, my lord, and you must think me out of my mind. But I know. I know that I have been touched by perfection and that I will never be the same again. He also knew. He emerged from her cell stirred to the depths, his eyes shining with the indescribable light.’
‘Who?’ insisted Artus, sure that the young man had not lost his mind, that his garbled speech concealed a profound truth.
‘Why, the knight of course … The Knight Hospitaller.’
‘Who?’ the Comte d’Authon almost cried out.
‘I assumed that you knew one another … I can tell you nothing more, Monsieur. With all due respect, please do not ask. No man has the right or the power to question a miracle. Madame de Souarcy is waiting for you in our infirmary. She has been through a terrible ordeal, but her courage is matched only by her purity. What joy you will feel in her presence! What joy … What joy I felt. Just imagine … She touched me, she looked straight into my eyes.’
Agnan wriggled free from Artus’s restraining hand and ran off, leaving Artus and Clément speechless.
Agnès was raving, although the friar who was looking after her reassured them as to her physical health. Lash wounds were quick to heal. On the other hand, Madame de Souarcy was suffering from a fever that required her to spend a few days in bed, where she would receive the best care. Clément and Artus sat at her bedside. Occasionally, she would murmur a few incomprehensible words before sinking back into semi-consciousness. Suddenly, she opened her eyes, sat up straight and cried out:
‘Clément … No, never!’
‘I am right beside you, Madame. Oh, Madame, I beg you, please get better,’ sobbed the child, his head in his hands.
Artus’s heart was in his throat and his soul in torment; he was overjoyed that an alleged drunkard, whom he was certain was the Knight Hospitaller, had slain Florin, and at the same time devastated that the knight had got there before him. What a fool! He had tried to negotiate, to buy the man, when he should have stopped wasting time and unsheathed his sword. He had not saved Agnès, he had not earned her gratitude, and he would never forgive himself for it. He would have given his life for her, without hesitation. He was angry at the knight even as he felt grateful to him. Her other saviour had preceded him by a few hours, that was all, a few hours that had made all the difference. And that young friar Agnan, whose words Artus had not understood. Agnan, whose life had been illuminated because Agnès’s hand had brushed against his hand or cheek. And suddenly Artus understood. He understood that this extraordinary woman who had stolen his heart and soul was unique, just as the young clerk had said. He understood that her attraction went deeper than her outward intelligence, courage, charm and beauty. And yet even as he held her slender hand between his, he could not help but ask who this woman really was. Everyone who knew her had been transformed in a way that could not be explained by love: Agnan, Clément, the knight, he himself … to name only those he knew. Who was she really?
In the days that followed tongues began to wag. Artus and Clément had found satisfactory lodgings at La Jument-Rouge. Everyone was talking, gossiping and conjecturing. The streets were alive with rumour and speculation. Even the local stoker and potter had revelations to make, tales to tell containing a mixture of truth and hyperbole. Nicolas Florin’s brutality, his cruelty, his corruption, his taste for riches became common knowledge. He was even accused of sorcery, of having sold his soul in exchange for power, and it was rumoured that he had held frequent black masses. The humble folk unleashed themselves upon this man whom they had at first adored, then feared and finally come to hate. The episcopate, which had hitherto turned a blind eye, finally intervened, decreeing that the Grand Inquisitor’s remains would not be buried in consecrated ground. This declaration reassured the masses, who, up until the day before, had bowed to Florin, also turning a blind eye to his notorious dealings, but now, no longer fearing reprisals, they turned against him as one.
Agnès’s scars soon healed thanks to the constant attention of those around her. A few days after the death of her would-be executioner, she got out of bed and walked a few paces. Clément scolded her for rushing matters and Artus implored her not to overexert herself.
‘Come now, dear gentlemen, I’m not as fragile as you think. It would take a lot more than this to finish off a woman like me. Any doubts I might have had about that have been dispelled.’
Despite the supplications of Artus, who longed for her to accept his hospitality, she decided to return directly to her manor in order to reassure her people and attend to the affairs she had been obliged to neglect.