The Season of the Beast. Andrea Japp

way his generosity as a boy, forgetting how he had snubbed and mistreated her until Baron Robert demanded that she be regarded as a young lady. Strangely, after her mother had died, when Agnès was barely three years old, Baroness Clémence had grown tremendously attached to this child of an adulterous union. It had amused her to show the girl how to read and write, to teach her Latin and the rudiments of arithmetic and philosophy, as well as her own two great passions: sewing and astronomy.

      ‘Your mother was my good angel, Eudes. I can never thank her enough in my prayers for the kindness she showed me. Her memory is alive in my heart and a constant comfort.’

      Tears welled up in her eyes, spontaneous tears for once that were a sign of true affection and grief.

      ‘Forgive my brutishness, my beauty! I am well aware of your devotion to my mother. At times I behave like an oaf, pray forgive me.’

      She forced a smile:

      ‘No, brother. You are always good.’

      Persuaded of her gratitude and respect for him, he changed the subject:

      ‘And what of that little rascal who is always hiding behind your skirts. What is his name? He has not made an appearance yet.’

      Agnès knew instantly that he was referring to Clément, but pretended she was racking her brains in order to give herself time to decide what attitude she should adopt.

      ‘A little rascal, you say?’

      ‘You know. The orphan whom your kindness compelled to take into your household.’

      ‘Do you mean Clément?’

      ‘Indeed. What a shame he isn’t a girl then we could have given him to the sisters at Clairets Abbey* as an offering to God7 and spared you the extra mouth to feed.’

      As overlord, Eudes had the authority to do this if he wished, and Agnès would have no say in the matter.

      ‘Clément is no trouble to me, brother. He is content with little and has a gentle, quiet nature. I rarely see him, but at times his presence amuses me.’ Convinced that her brother’s aim was to gratify her at little cost to himself, she added, ‘I confess that I would miss him. He accompanies me on my rounds of the estate and its neighbouring communes.’

      ‘Indeed, too gentle and too puny to make a soldier out of him. He could become a friar, perhaps, in a few years’ time.’

      She must on no account openly oppose Eudes. He was one of those fools who dug in their heels at the slightest resistance, immediately manoeuvring others into a position of defeat. It was their customary way of convincing themselves of their power. Agnès continued in the same measured tone with a hint of feigned uncertainty:

      ‘If he proves competent enough my intention is to make him my apothecary or physic. I shall be much in need of one. Learning fascinates him, and he already knows all about the medicinal herbs. But he is young yet. We shall discuss it when the time comes, brother, for I know you to be an able judge where people are concerned.’

      Children are credited with an infallible instinct. Mathilde was worrying proof of the contrary. Having first tasted the fruits and sweetmeats, she sat at her uncle’s feet chattering away, delighted each time he kissed her hair or slipped his fingers down the collar of her tunic to caress the nape of her neck. Her uncle’s accounts of his hunting exploits and his travels fascinated her. She devoured him with her eyes, an enchanted smile spreading across her pretty face. Agnès thought that she must soon explain her uncle’s shameful nature to her. But how? Mathilde adored Eudes. She regarded him as so powerful, so radiant; in short, so wonderful. He brought within the thick cold grey walls of the Manoir de Souarcy the promise of a life of easy grandeur that intoxicated her daughter to the point of clouding her judgement. Agnès could not blame her. What did she know of the ways of the world, this little girl who in less than a year would become a woman? She had only ever known the pressures of farm life: the mud of stables and sties, the worry of the harvests, the coarse clothing and the fear of famine and illness.

      An unbearable thought struck Agnès with full force. Eudes would repeat with his niece what he had attempted with his half-sister when she was barely eight, given half the chance. The extent to which he was in thrall to his incestuous passion terrified Agnès. There were plenty of peasants and maids for him to mount, some of whom were flattered by the interest their master showed in their charms, while others – the majority – simply resigned themselves. After all, they had already suffered the father and grandfather before him.

      Pleading the lateness of the hour, Agnès ordered her daughter to be put to bed. Where was Clément? She had not seen him since Eudes de Larnay’s arrival.

       Clairets Forest, May 1304

      THE massive torso bore down on him. A solid wall of rage. It seemed to the novice as though he had been standing for an eternity contemplating the perfect musculature rippling beneath the silky black skin slick with sweat. And yet the horse had only advanced a few paces towards him. The voice rang out again:

      ‘The letter. Where is the letter? Give it to me and I will spare your life.’

      The hand holding the reins tapered off into a set of long gleaming metal talons. The novice was able to make out a pair of straps attaching the lethal glove to the wrist. He thought he saw blood on the metal tips.

      His panting breath resounded in his ears. The clawed hand moved upwards, perhaps in a gesture of conciliation. The novice watched each infinitesimal movement as though it were fractured through a prism. The action had been swift and yet the hand appeared to be endlessly repeating the same gesture. He closed his eyes for a split second, hoping to drive away the image. His head was reeling, and a terrible thirst caused his tongue to stick to the roof of his mouth.

      ‘Give me the letter. You will live.’

      From what dark depths did this voice emanate? It belonged to no ordinary mortal.

      The novice turned his head, weighing up his chances of escape. Nearby, a thick clump of trees and shrubs shimmered in the setting sun. Their swaying branches were too tight for a horse to pass through. He made a dash for it. Careering like a madman, he nearly fell over twice and had to clutch the overhead branches to steady himself. His wheezing breath rose from his throat in loud gasps. He resisted the urge to collapse on the forest floor and lie there sobbing, waiting for his pursuer to catch up with him. Further to his right, the shrill echo of a magpie’s startled chatter pierced the young man’s eardrums. He ran on. A few more yards. Up ahead in a clearing, a tall bramble patch had colonised every inch of space. If he managed to hide there his pursuer might lose his trail. He leapt into the middle of the hellish undergrowth.

      He clasped his hand over his mouth to stifle the cry that threatened to choke him. The blood throbbed in his throat, his ears and his temples.

      There, motionless, silent, barely breathing. The brambles snagged his arms and legs and clung to his face. He watched their hooked claws creeping towards him. They quivered, stretching out and slackening, poised to tear into his flesh. They dug into his skin, twisting in order to snare their prey.

      He tried hard to convince himself brambles were inanimate, yet they moved.

      The night was crimson red when it fell. Even the trees turned crimson. The grass, the moss further off, the brambles, the mist, everything was tinged with crimson.

      A terrible pain pulsed through his limbs as though he were being scorched by a flameless fire.

      A faint noise. A noise like swirling water. If only he could put his hands over his ears to stop the rushing sound in his head. But he could not. The brambles clung to him with redoubled spite. The sound of approaching hooves.

      The letter. It must not be found. He had promised to guard it with his life.

      He tried to pray but stumbled over the words of his entreaty. They ran through his mind again and again