The Breath of the Rose. Andrea Japp

peculiar about this woman – something he had not taken the time or had been unwilling to see. He tried now to analyse what he felt, but without much success. At times he had experienced the thrill of terrifying her, just as he did the others. But then all of a sudden another woman appeared, like a secret door leading to a mysterious underground passageway. And that other woman was not afraid of him. For some reason, Florin was quite sure that Agnès had no control over these transformations. Had he been an unthinking fanatic like some of his brothers, he would no doubt have seen it as proof of demonic possession. But Florin did not believe in the devil. And as for God, well, he had little time for Him. The pleasures life had to offer to those who knew how to take them were of greater concern to the Grand Inquisitor. Among the many he had condemned to death for sorcery or possession, Florin had never come across any convincing proof of the existence of miracle workers or witches.

      His annoyance got the better of his cunning and he blurted out:

      ‘As I am sure you are aware, Madame, the inquisitorial procedure* permits no other counsel than the accused himself.’

      ‘Indeed.’

      ‘Indeed?’

      ‘I am aware of that particularity,’ she said in a voice whose confident tone humiliated the inquisitor.

      He stifled the anger welling up in him and the accompanying urge to slap her. He knew he should have held his tongue, but the desire to watch her face turn pale was too overpowering, and he continued, forcing himself to speak softly:

      ‘It is not customary to reveal the identity of the witnesses for the prosecution, any more than the content of their accusations … However, because you are a lady, I may grant you this privilege …’

      ‘I have no doubt that you will do all that is necessary and correct, Monsieur. If you do not mind, I should like to take a short nap. The long days ahead require me to be rested.’

      She leaned her head against the back of the wooden bench and closed her eyes.

      Florin’s eyes filled with tears of rage, and he pursed his lips for fear he might utter an oath that would reveal his agitation to Agnès. He was vaguely consoled by the words of one of the most celebrated canonists: ‘The aim of trying and sentencing the accused to death is not to save his soul but to uphold public morals and strike fear into the hearts of the people … When an innocent refuses to confess, I resort to torture in order to send him to the stake.’1

      Agnès had no wish to sleep. She was reflecting. Had she won a first victory in the long battle for which she was preparing herself? She sensed this man’s puzzling hostility towards her and his exasperation.

      Is it your still-innocent soul that protects me even now, Clément? Thanks to him Agnès knew that Florin was using the first of many tricks in the inquisitor’s arsenal.

      Many months before, on a July evening when it was nearly dark, Clément had returned in an excited state from one of his frequent forays. It was already late and Agnès had retired to her chambers. The young girl had scratched at her door and asked to see her for a moment.

      No. She must never think of Clément other than as a boy or she risked making a blunder that would endanger both their lives. She must continue to refer to him only in the masculine.

      The child had tapped at her door and asked to see her for a moment. He had stumbled upon a copy of Consultationes ad inquisitores haereticae pravitatis2 by Gui Faucoi, who had been counsellor to Saint Louis before becoming Pope Clément IV. The treatise was accompanied by a slim volume, or, rather, a manual of bloodcurdling procedures. He had stammered:

      ‘M-Madame, Madame … if only you knew … they use trickery and deceit in order to obtain confessions, even false ones.’

      An inscription at the head of the slender manual read: ‘Everything should be done to ensure that the accused cannot proclaim his innocence so the sentence cannot be deemed unjust …’3

      ‘What an abomination,’ she had murmured in disbelief. ‘But this is about trial by ordeal … How is it possible? Where did you come across these works?’

      The child had given a muddled explanation. He had mentioned a library and then skilfully evaded Agnès’s questions.

      ‘I see in it a sign from God, Madame. Knowing and anticipating your enemies’ ploys means avoiding the traps they lay for you.’

      He had described them to her: the technique of coercion and humiliation aimed at breaking down even the toughest resistance, the scheming, the manipulation of witnesses. The wretched victims were questioned on points of Christian doctrine. Their ignorance should have come as no surprise to anyone and yet was used as proof of their heresy. Clément had also listed the few possibilities of appeal at the disposition of the accused. As almost no one was made aware of them they were rarely invoked. It was possible, for example, to appeal to the Pope – though such appeals had every chance of being mislaid, often intentionally, unless an influential messenger delivered them directly to Rome. An objection to an inquisitor could be made on the grounds that he harboured a particular animosity towards the accused. However, the process was liable to miscarry since it required judgement, and very few judges were willing to risk getting on the wrong side of an inquisitor or a bishop associated with the Inquisition.

      Clément had managed to dash any last hopes his lady might have entertained by adding that the majority of inquisitors, although they received a wage, rewarded themselves with the confiscated property of the condemned men and women. It was therefore against their interests for the latter to be found innocent, and wealthy victims, although more difficult targets, were desirable prey.

      The knowledge Clément had acquired from some unknown source had allowed Agnès to forge what she hoped would be her most reliable weapons when confronting Florin.

      The inquisitors’ initial ploy, then, was to swap the names of the witnesses and their accusations. Thus the first accusation would be attributed to the fifth witness, the second to the fourth, the third to the first, and so on … In this way the accused would appear clumsy in his defence against each informer. Cleverer still, they added the names of people who had never come forward as witnesses to the list of actual informers. But the subtlest, most convincing and preferred method was to ask the accused in a roundabout way whether he was aware of having any deadly enemies who might perjure themselves in order to bring about his downfall. If the accused failed to mention the most fervent of his accusers, their testimony was placed above suspicion since by his own admission they could not be fabrications. In each case the protection of witnesses was considered essential for the very good reason that ‘without such a precaution, nobody would ever dare testify’.

      Curiously, these revelations, which had so shaken her that night, now came to her aid. Had she believed that she was about to be dragged before impartial judges whose sole concerns were truth and faith then her resolve would have been weakened. She would have searched inside herself for the failing that could justify such harsh punishment. Clément had helped her to understand the wicked nature of this farcical trial. Only a noble enemy deserves a fair fight.

      Her thoughts had been wandering in this way for a while when Florin’s voice almost made her jump. He thought he had woken her and this gave him further cause for alarm. How was she able to sleep at a time like this?

      ‘Owing to the limited space at the Alençon headquarters, you will be subjected to murus strictus while you are in custody, unless that is … the midwife attests that you are with child.’

      ‘Perhaps you have forgotten that I have been a widow for many years. Is not murus strictus a severe punishment rather than a … temporary accommodation?’

      He seemed surprised that she would have knowledge of such things; the secrets of the Inquisition were jealously guarded in order to further demoralise the accused. The ‘narrow wall’ was simply a gloomy, damp dungeon the size of a cupboard where it was possible to chain prisoners