The Season of the Beast. Andrea Japp

ripping under the plant’s stubborn barbs. His whole hand had turned black. His fingers would barely move, and felt so numb all of a sudden that he found it difficult to push them inside his cape to seize the parchment.

      The missive was brief. The hooves were drawing near. In a matter of seconds they would be upon him. He ripped up the small piece of paper and crammed the fragments into his mouth, chewing frantically in order to ingest what was written before the hooves appeared. When the novice finally managed to swallow and the ball moistened with saliva disappeared inside him, he had the impression that those few magnificent lines were ripping his throat apart.

      Flat against the forest floor which was thick with blackberry bushes, all he could see at first were the black horse’s front legs. And yet it seemed to him they were multiplying, that suddenly there were four, six, eight animal’s legs.

      He tried to stop his breathing – so loud it must be echoing through the forest.

      ‘The letter. Give me the letter.’

      The voice was cavernous, distorted, as though it were coming from the depths of the earth. Could it be the devil?

      The throbbing pain from the remorseless brambles disappeared as if by magic. God had heard his prayer at last. The young man rose up, emerging from the barbed snarl, indifferent to the scratches and gashes lacerating his skin. Blood was pouring down his face and from his hands, which he held out before him, red against the crimson night. Beads of it formed along the veins of his forearms as far as his elbows then vanished as quickly as they had come.

      ‘The letter!’ ordered the booming voice, resounding in his head.

      He gazed down at his feet clad in sandals. They were so swollen he could no longer see the leather straps beneath the black blistered flesh.

      He had sworn to guard the letter with his life. Was it not a crime then to have eaten it? He had given his word. Now he must give his life. He looked back at the ocean of brambles he had foolishly believed would be his salvation, and tried to judge its height. It stirred with a curious breathing motion, the blackberry branches rising, falling, rising again. Making the most of a long exhalation, he leapt over the hostile mass and ran in a straight line.

      It felt as if he had been running for hours, or a few seconds, when the sound of galloping hooves caught up with him. He opened his lips wide and gulped a mouthful of air. The blood rushed to his throat and he burst into laughter. He was laughing so hard that he had to stop to catch his breath. He bent over and only then did he notice the long spike sticking out of his chest.

      How did the broad spear come to be there? Who had run him through?

      The young man slumped to his knees. A river of red flowed down his stomach and thighs and was soaked up by the crimson grass.

      The horse pulled up a yard in front of the novice, and its rider, dressed in a long, hooded cape, dismounted. The spectre removed the lance swiftly and wiped its bloody shaft on the grass. He knelt down and searched the friar, cursing angrily as he did so.

      Where was the letter?

      The figure leapt up furiously and aimed a violent kick at the dying man. He was seized by a murderous rage just as the dried, shrivelled lips of the young man opened one last time to breathe:

      ‘Amen.’

      His head fell back.

      Five long shiny metal claws approached the dead man’s face and the spectre regretted only one thing: that his victim could no longer feel the pitiless destruction they were about to unleash upon his flesh.

       Manoir de Souarcy-en-Perche, May 1304

      SUPPER was a lengthy affair. The table manners of Agnès’s half-brother revolted her. Had he never heard of the eminent Parisian theologian Hugues de Saint-Victor, who over half a century before had explained the rules of table etiquette? In his work he specified that one should not ‘eat with one’s fingers but with a spoon, nor wipe one’s hands on one’s clothes, nor place half-eaten food or detritus from between one’s teeth on one’s plate’. Eudes gorged himself noisily, chewed with his mouth open and used his sleeve to wipe away the flecks of soup on his face. He belched profusely as he finished off the last crumbs of the fruit pudding. Sated by the supper Mabile had managed to make delicious despite the lack of meat – forbidden on this fast day – Eudes said all of a sudden:

      ‘And now … Gifts for my lamb and her little beloved. Send for Mathilde.’

      ‘She is surely sleeping, brother.’

      ‘Then let her be woken. I wish to perceive her joy.’

      Agnès obeyed, curbing her irritation.

      A few moments later, the girl, her clothes thrown on in haste, came into the vast hall, her eyes glassy with sleep and with desire.

      Eudes walked over to the big wooden box covered with hessian, which the page had carried in earlier. He relished carefully untying the ropes as his niece’s expectancy mounted. At last he pulled out an earthenware flask, declaring enticingly:

      ‘Naturally, for your toilet I have brought vinegar from Modena, ladies. They say its dark hue turns the skin pale and silky as a dew-covered petal. The finest Italian ladies use it in abundance.’

      ‘You spoil us, brother.’

      ‘And what of it? This is a mere trifle. Let us move on to more serious matters. Ah! What do I see next in my box … five ells* of Genovese silk …’

      It was a gift worthy of a princess. Agnès had to remind herself what lay behind her half-brother’s extravagance in order not to run over and feel the saffron-coloured fabric. But she could not stop herself from crying out:

      ‘What finery! My God! Whatever shall we use it for? Why, I would be afraid to spoil it with some clumsy gesture.’

      ‘Just imagine, Madame, that the dream of all silk is to caress your skin.’

      The intensity of the look he gave her made her lower her eyes. He continued, however, in the same playful tone:

      ‘And what might this heavy crimson velvet pouch contain? What could give off such a heady fragrance? Do you know what it is, Mademoiselle?’ he teased, leaning towards his gaping niece.

      ‘I admit I do not, uncle.’

      ‘Well, let us open it then.’

      He walked over to the table and spread out the blend of aniseed, coriander, fennel, ginger, juniper, almond, walnut and hazelnut, which the wealthy liked to sample before going to bed to freshen their breath and aid their digestion.

      ‘Épices de chambre,’ breathed the girl in an admiring, mesmerised voice.

      ‘Correct. And for my beloved what have we in our treasure trove? For I do believe your birthday is fast approaching, is it not, pretty young lady?’

      Choked with emotion, the excited Mathilde pranced around her uncle, twittering:

      ‘In a few weeks’ time, uncle.’

      ‘Perfect! Then I shall be the first to congratulate you, and you’ll not object to my haste, will you?’

      ‘Oh no, uncle!’

      ‘Now then, what have we here that might make a birthday gift worthy of a young princess? Ah! A silver and turquoise filigree brooch fashioned by Flemish silversmiths. And from Constantinople a mother-of-pearl comb that will make her even prettier and the moon grow green with envy …’

      The ecstatic child hardly dared touch the piece of jewellery shaped like a long pin. Her lower lip trembled as if she were about to burst into tears before such beauty, and Agnès thought again how the simplicity of their lives would soon become a burden to her daughter. But how would she explain to this girl, who was still a child, that in a few years’ time her charming uncle would see in his half-niece a new source of pleasure. Agnès