Lady Agnes Mystery Vol.2. Andrea Japp

master’s emotions:

      ‘Ah … the knight …’

      ‘What about the knight? His was not the only name I mentioned, was it?’

      ‘No, of course not.’

      The Comte studied him for a moment before conceding defeat:

      ‘Come and sit down, Ronan – since your stubbornness is equal only to the turmoil I have been plunged into for days. And after all, who better to confide in … besides “Madame”, that is,’ he added, smiling for the first time in days.

      The old man perched stiffly on one of the tiny armchairs, moved by his master’s evident display of affection and trust.

      ‘Well, yes … the knight. I don’t know what to make of him, my dear Ronan. I am assailed by the most foolish notions. Clément assured me that Madame de Souarcy had never met the man before he visited her in prison, and I believe him. I am also convinced that his sword killed Nicolas Florin. What could drive a Knight Hospitaller of his rank to assault a Grand Inquisitor? How did he find her in Alençon, and why? His mission was to save her, I’d wager my life on it. Why did Agnan, the dead fiend’s clerk, babble incomprehensibly about Madame Agnès, giving the impression that he was in love with her? Why does everybody, man and child, including myself, I confess, worship her to the point of risking their lives to save hers? Why, why this knight from Cyprus? What does he know of her?’ he exploded angrily.

      ‘Do you fear that he … how should I say, that this man who has taken a vow of chastity might have formed an improper attachment to her?’

      ‘And why not? Why wouldn’t he fall in love? Didn’t I fall for her body and soul from one moment to the next?’ the Comte retorted in a voice filled with irony.

      ‘Do you remember when you used to ask me questions to which I did not know the answers? And you champed at the bit, insisting: “There’s a solution to every problem. You only have to find it.”’

      ‘What are you trying to say?’

      ‘Would it not be best to confess your doubts to “Madame”? By all accounts she does not appear to be an evasive woman or one prone to playing foolish games.’

      ‘What, and make a complete idiot of myself? I’m not even sure that she sees any … attraction in me aside from my position and fortune. And you see, in her case that wouldn’t be enough for me; what is more, I doubt that for a woman like her it would be either.’

      ‘What better opportunity to find out? And at the same time grasp the nettle.’

      ‘You don’t mean with her …?’ Artus was indignant.

      ‘Indeed no, my lord. What did I teach you about never handling a lady directly?’ Ronan chortled. ‘It is far too dangerous. No, indeed. I had in mind the knight de Leone. You might approach him and obtain an explanation. I’ve heard these monk-soldiers aren’t easy to broach, but your name and reputation might encourage him to listen and save you a humiliating rebuff.’

      It was so startlingly obvious that Artus gaped at Ronan – as though surprised to see him sitting there. When he finally spoke, he sounded more like his old self:

      ‘Do you realise, my dear Ronan, what a weight you’ve lifted off my shoulders? Why, good heavens! Of course, I will speak to the knight … I hope he hasn’t already left for some far-off land. Pray, send for Monge de Brineux. He may be able to help me. He has men posted everywhere.’

      ‘What about “Madame”?’

      The Comte’s self-assurance suddenly faltered:

      ‘Well … Your advice is sound … But I need more time to weigh up the advantages and disadvantages. I … I am perfectly capable of grasping a whole bunch of nettles. But approaching a woman of such distinction is another matter. You see, Ronan,’ he went on, adopting a slightly didactic tone, ‘women are such complex – not to say unpredictable – creatures, whereas we men … well, we are more … straightforward, more approachable somehow.’

      The wrinkled face, which years before had watched over him through many a feverish night, broke into a smile.

      ‘At least that is what we men like to believe. Is it not simply because women expect different things of life that we deem them unpredictable … not to say irrational?’

      ‘Well! Are you saying that I’m talking nonsense?’

      ‘Why, I wouldn’t dare, my lord,’ the old servant replied, a hint of triumph in his voice. ‘With your permission, I will take my leave and send for Lord de Brineux.’

      ‘Go.’

      No sooner had the old man so dear to his heart left than Artus acknowledged what he had spent two weeks trying to avoid, preferring instead to fret, bridle, brood and rage. But he had not counted on Ronan. Ronan who had always known how to handle him, how to cajole him patiently into doing what he didn’t want to do: to sit down to meals, wash, go to bed, say his prayers, study at his desk and now, as a grown-up, to reflect.

      He gave a sigh of impatience. Of course he would need to demand explanations from this mysterious Hospitaller. Was it possible for a soldier of God to form a sentimental attachment to a woman – albeit not just any woman? Artus was honest enough to acknowledge that his unease was in part due to jealousy. ‘Madame’ had stolen his heart and mind so swiftly, so completely, that he had barely had time to register it. So why not another man’s? What other explanation could there be for the knight’s readiness to kill without compunction a man of God, a Grand Inquisitor, the Pope’s representative – however depraved – in order to save her?

      He charged furiously round the modest-sized room, like a caged lion, the tiny, uneven panes of glass rattling in the windows as he strode past.

      Clément had assured him that his lady knew nothing of the knight before his unexpected arrival at the Inquisition headquarters.

      ‘God’s wounds!’ he mumbled through gritted teeth. It made no sense at all. Nothing about Madame de Souarcy made any sense. He froze at the thought. What scheme was being hatched around her?

      Meeting the knight would be of no use to him, at least not yet. He had no choice but to do what Ronan had shrewdly suggested – to pay her a visit. His enthusiasm was tinged with dread. What if she sent him away? What if she were evasive? What if he discovered that she didn’t share his feelings? Yes, but what if she did?

      He needed a pretext. It would make him appear less foolish. He wished to enquire after her health, and after that of young Clément – whose energy and enthusiasm were indeed missed at the chateau. In fact, Joseph seemed positively to pine for the boy’s constant probing.

      Should he announce his arrival? He recalled Agnès’s annoyance, her stinging rebuke, the day he had arrived unannounced and caught her dressed in peasant’s breeches as she harvested her honey, her long, lissom thigh muscles tensing beneath the coarse cloth as she mounted Ogier. Goodness! The woman had not left his thoughts for a single moment since their first meeting.

      Should he announce his arrival or not? It would certainly be more respectful, although as her overlord he was under no obligation. However, he thought he would discover what he wanted to know more quickly if his visit were a surprise.

       Château de Larnay, Perche, December 1304

      Jules stood twisting his cap lined with rabbit fur between his hands. He was trying to keep as much distance as possible between himself and his terrifying master, but had been ordered by the other man in a slurred splutter:

      ‘Come closer! Come closer, you wretch. So, my good foreman, what have you to report?’

      The serf was only foreman by default, and his title did not spare him from his master’s blows or save him from starvation.

      ‘Come closer, I said!’ bellowed Eudes de Larnay,