The Season of the Beast. Andrea Japp

drain and turned right into Rue du Cygne.

      The foul acrid smell drifting on the breeze gave a better indication of the tavern’s location than any sign. It was one of those establishments where workers and craftsmen from the guilds gathered in the evenings – in this case the tanners’ and leatherworkers’ guild. While some fiery preachers described them as ‘dens of iniquity’ that encouraged sinful behaviour, the truth was far more benign. They were drinking places with a family atmosphere: people settled most of their deals and differences there and stopped for a welcome rest surrounded by a friendly din.

      The cloaked figure paused in front of the door. Laughter and cries echoed from inside. He had deliberately arrived late so that the customers’ curiosity would not be roused by seeing a solitary figure seated at a table. The person he was meeting would then already be waiting inside. He drew his hood down over his forehead and, clasping the sides of his heavy cloak, which was far too warm for such a sultry evening, he pushed open the door.

      Two steps. Two steps were all it took. An ocean; a universe. A gulf separating innocence from almost certain damnation. And yet innocence can be a burden and above all rarely profitable. Innocence affords private satisfaction; money and power simple recompense.

      The cloaked figure descended the first step and then the second.

      Except perhaps for a welcoming smile from one woman sitting at a table, his entrance elicited little response from the tavern’s regular customers.

      Calmly crossing the trodden earth floor strewn with straw, the cloaked figure approached a table towards the back of the room, which was plunged into darkness. The man he was meeting had snuffed out the oil lamp in front of him.

      The figure sat down. The hubbub of conversation around them was in full swing and would conveniently drown out the transaction that was about to take place.

      The man was plump and jovial. He filled a second glass with wine and said in a hushed voice:

      ‘I ordered the best. Since her husband passed away, the landlady has developed the regrettable habit of watering down the drink. It’s only natural. She buys it for a few pennies a barrel from one of her nieces, a nun at Épernon. They say the abbey possesses some fine presses.’

      Did he really believe that such harmless banter would detract from the enormity of the matter that had brought them there? And yet, the cloaked figure betrayed no irritation but remained silent, bolt upright, awaiting his next move.

      At last, the man, a former barber-surgeon if what he said was true – that is a butcher14 of beards and of human flesh – vexed by the silence of the person opposite, slid his fleshy hand across the table. Clasped in his palm between his hairy thumb and fingers was a phial wrapped in a thin strip of paper. A second hand wearing a thick brown leather glove reached out from under the cloak to take it, and at the same time set down a bulging purse, which the barber quickly pocketed. He explained in an almost piqued, slightly menacing voice:

      ‘I’ve brought the instructions. It requires somewhat delicate handling. The aconite enters through the skin. It’s slower but every bit as lethal as if it’s swallowed.’

      The cloaked figure stood up, not having uttered a single word, nor tasted a single drop of wine, which would have meant pulling back the hood of the cloak.

      Two steps. Only two steps to climb. Back in that dimly lit room buzzing with relaxed conversation lay the past. It no longer bore any relation to the future.

      The past had been inflicted, had imposed itself with all its cruel injustices. The future would be freely chosen. But first it must be fashioned.

       Clairets Abbey, Perche, May 1304

      THE abbey of the Order of Bernadine Cistercians was generously patronised and exempt from duties, as well as enjoying the privilege of low, middle and high justice, borne out by the gibbet erected on the gallows site. The abbey had permission to harvest timber for fuel and building from the forests owned by the Comte de Chartres. In addition to these charitable contributions, the abbey owned land at Masle and Theil that brought in a sizeable annual income, not to mention the numerous donations from local burghers or nobles or even from the more affluent peasants that had been pouring in steadily for years. The abbey’s dedication service15 had been witnessed by a certain Guillaume, commander of the Knights Templar at Arville.

      Éleusie de Beaufort, Abbess of Clairets since the advent of her widowhood five years earlier, set down the letter written on Italian paper,16 which she had received only moments before in the strictest secrecy. Had she not been convinced by the seals protecting the letter, she would certainly have burnt it or else dismissed it as a blasphemous fraud.

      She looked up at the exhausted messenger who stood in silence awaiting her reply. She could tell by the man’s despondent expression that he knew the contents of the missive. She played for time:

      ‘My brother in Christ, you must rest a few hours. Your journey will be a long one.’

      ‘Time is running out, Abbess. I have no desire to rest and as for my needs, well, they must wait.’

      She smiled at him sadly and corrected herself:

      ‘Then let us say I request the favour of a few moments’ reflection and contemplation.’

      ‘I consent, but do not forget that time is running out.’

      Éleusie de Beaufort walked over to a doorway concealed behind a hanging. She led the man up a carved stone staircase to a heavy padlocked door that hid from the eyes of the world, and her fellow nuns, her private library – one of the most prestigious and the most dangerous in all Christendom. The counts and bishops of Chartres, various scholars, not to mention a few kings, princes and even some knights, had for decades deposited there the works they brought back from all four corners of the world, some of them in languages the Abbess, despite her great learning, was unable to decipher. She was the secret guardian of this science, of these books – most of them forgotten by the heirs and descendants of their original donors – and at times she experienced a frisson of uneasiness when she touched their covers. For she knew, she had read in Latin, in French and in the little she was able to decipher of English, that some of these volumes contained unrepeatable secrets. The mysteries of the universe were explained in three or four of them – possibly more for she read no Greek (a language that was little known and even looked down upon at the time), Arabic or Egyptian, and even less Aramaic. These secrets must remain beyond the reach of men, and no higher authority, save that of the Holy Father, would convince her otherwise. Why, then, did she not simply destroy them, reduce them to ashes? She had lain awake many a night asking herself that question. She had even got up to go to the great hearth in the library with the intention of fuelling a sacrilegious fire, only to make her way back to bed incapable of carrying out her plan. Why? Because they contained knowledge, and knowledge, however unbelievable, was sacred.

      The Abbess made the messenger as comfortable as she could before unbolting another door opening onto the corridor. Cautiously poking her head out to check that the coast was clear, she walked through and closed it behind her. She made her way swiftly towards the kitchen to fetch a ewer of water, some bread and cheese and perhaps a few slices of smoked bacon – enough to replenish the traveller after his exhausting journey. She hurried along the corridor, like a thief, hugging the walls, listening out for the slightest sound for fear of being surprised.

      A jovial voice rang out behind her. She swung round, summoning up all her strength in order to greet Yolande de Fleury’s words with a smile. The young sister worked in the granary and was accompanied by the granary’s custodian, Sister Adèle de Vigneux. Yolande de Fleury was a small, plump woman whose perpetual good humour, it appeared, nothing could dampen. She enquired:

      ‘Abbess, where are you going in such a hurry? Might we assist you in some task?’

      ‘No,