The Breath of the Rose. Andrea Japp

foolishness!’ exclaimed Florin, and then in a voice that had regained all of its cheerfulness he warned the shadowy figure of a man hunched against the bars: ‘Pray, but pray in silence; you have offended our ears enough with your griping!’

      She remained motionless a few steps away from the cage, peering into the darkness that the candle flames struggled vainly to illuminate. Could those two blue openings surrounded by what looked like raw flesh be eyes? And was that gaping wound a mouth?

      ‘Dear God …’ she groaned.

      ‘He has forsaken us,’ responded the feeble voice.

      ‘Blasphemy!’ Florin shrieked, pulling her by her coat sleeve. ‘And he protests his innocence.’

      A few yards further on they came to a door that could only be entered by bending double. It had no peephole. One of the guards drew back the bolt and stepped aside. The inquisitor walked in, followed by Agnès.

      ‘Your chamber, Madame,’ he announced cheerily, and then in a voice suddenly filled with loving sadness: ‘Believe me, my child, there is nothing quite like peace and quiet for putting one’s thoughts in order. I hope that you will have time in here to reflect, to see the error of your ways. My overriding desire is to help you return to the Lord’s fold. I would give my life in return for saving your lost soul.’

      The door slammed, the bolt grated. She was standing alone in total darkness. She began to walk tentatively, sliding one foot after the other. As soon as her leg touched the primitive bed she had been able to make out in the gloom, she collapsed on it in a heap.

      She was gripped by a sudden panic, and it was all she could do to stop herself from screaming and hurling herself against the door, pummelling it with all her might, begging them to come back for her.

      And what if they left her there to rot, dying of hunger and thirst? What if they waited until she went mad and then declared her possessed?

      That man, that wretched soul who had grasped her ankle and implored her to die quickly. He knew. He knew that years of detention awaiting trial could turn into a lifetime on the pretext of further inquiries. He knew about privation, humiliation, weeks of torture. He had learned to live with the fear and certainty that few ever escaped the Inquisition’s clutches.

      Silence! He wants you to give up and let go of life. I order you to stand firm! Baronne de Larnay, Madame Clémence would not have given in. Stand firm!

      If you plead guilty, you will languish here until death comes to claim you, and Mathilde and Clément will be doomed. They will endeavour to declare you a relapsed heretic – the most heinous of crimes in their eyes.

      Remember, you will be shown no mercy, he will not be moved to pity. Stand firm!

      Even as she admonished herself, she was struck by the terrible certainty that Florin was enjoying himself. However absurd the idea might seem, Florin was not driven by material gain, still less by faith. He took pleasure in torturing. He enjoyed causing suffering, lacerating and disembowelling. He rejoiced in making his victims scream. She was his latest toy.

      An acid saliva rose in her mouth and she bent double as she cried out.

      Clémence … Clémence, my angel, bless me with a miracle.

      Show that you deserve the miracle by standing firm!

       Château d’Authon-du-Perche, September 1304

      JOSEPH, Artus d’Authon’s old Jewish physician, masked his contentment. He felt flattered that young Clément possessed such a rare ability to learn and could express his awe so openly to him.

      And yet it had taken all of the child’s powers of persuasion and the Comte’s insistence to convince him to take the boy on as an apprentice. The mere idea of having to explain, repeat, din the beauty of science into the young boy’s head exhausted him.

      Joseph had soon been surprised by how much Clément already knew. He had even lost his temper with the boy, ordering him to be silent when he mentioned certain medical facts known only to a small number of scholars – facts which, if openly talked about, ran the risk of provoking religious reprisals.

      ‘But why lie when one possesses true knowledge that could prevent suffering and death?’

      ‘Because knowledge is power, my child, and those who control knowledge have no wish to share power.’

      ‘And will they always control it?’

      ‘No, because knowledge is like water: you may try to cup it in your hands but it will always slip through your fingers.’

      As the weeks went by, Joseph had allowed himself to become enchanted by the boy’s keen intelligence, and perhaps also by the desire, by the hope, of being able to pass on the vast knowledge he was afraid would die with him.

      Why had he left the prestigious university at Bologna? He was honest enough to admit that he had been motivated by foolish arrogance. The works of the great Greek, Jewish and Arab doctors of medicine had been translated in Salerno and Bologna. However, despite the wealth of knowledge generated by these previously unheard-of works, the West had persisted in using practices that owed more to superstition than to science. Joseph had gradually convinced himself that he would be the harbinger of this medical revolution. He was mistaken. He had settled in Paris in 1289 in the belief that his wish to propagate his art for the common good would protect him from the anti-Semitism that was rife in France. Again he was mistaken. A year later, the situation grew worse after the case of Jonathas the Jew,4 who was accused of spitting on the Host, even though so-called witnesses were unable to describe the exact circumstances in which the supposed sacrilege had taken place. Jews were once again portrayed as enemies of the faith in the same way as the Cathars. Besides the everyday humiliations and official discriminatory measures, they lived in fear of being stoned by a hostile mob that would readily tear them apart with impunity. Abandoning his possessions, like so many others, he had chosen the route to exile. He considered going to Provence, which was known for its tolerance, and where many of his people already enjoyed a peace they mistakenly believed would be lasting. But Joseph’s age had caught up with him and his journey had ended in Perche. He had set down his meagre baggage in a small town not far from Authon-du-Perche, and had tried to remain inconspicuous. He had occasionally treated people, though without employing his full knowledge for fear of arousing suspicion, and yet was so much more successful than the local apothecaries and doctors that news of his reputation soon reached the château. Artus had summoned him and Joseph, not without trepidation, had obeyed. The tall, withdrawn, broken man had stood before him and studied him in silence for a few moments before declaring:

      ‘My only son died a few months ago. I wish to know whether you could have saved him, esteemed doctor.’

      ‘I cannot say, my lord. For, although I am aware of your terrible loss, I do not know the symptoms of his illness.’ The tears had welled up in the old physician’s eyes and he had shaken his head and murmured: ‘Ah, the little children. It is not right when they die before us.’

      ‘And yet, like his mother, he had a frail constitution and often became ill and feverish. His skin was deathly pale and he bled profusely even from the smallest scratch. He complained of tiredness, headaches and mysterious pains in his bones.’

      ‘Did he feel the cold?’

      ‘Yes. To such an extent that his room had to be heated in summer.’

      Artus had paused before continuing:

      ‘Why did you, a Jew, choose to practise in this part of the world?’

      Joseph had simply shaken his head. Artus had gone on:

      ‘To be a Jew at this time in the kingdom of France is a frightening thing.’

      ‘It has long been the case and in many kingdoms,’ the physician had corrected, smiling weakly.

      ‘Together with the Arabs