Lady Agnes Mystery Vol.2. Andrea Japp

of producing marvels. Her curtseys, however, remained as clumsy as before. She curtseyed then, tottering slightly, and declared:

      ‘Seeing as it’s Advent and a fasting day to boot, and cold as death outside, I’ve prepared gourd23 soup with almond milk. Upon my word, it’s as smooth as mayonnaise. After that I’ve made horse bean and onion purée to go with the trout Gilbert caught to liven up your fasting day, Madame. For dessert … well, there’s a slice of dried layered fruit tart left over. Dried fruit, that’ll perk you up after a ride. I haven’t got much to finish … A goblet of mulled wine, perhaps.’

      ‘It all sounds very tempting, Adeline. Thanks to your talents our Advent meal promises to be as delicious as that of any feast day. Lay a place for Clément next to me.’

      The young woman was so thrilled at the compliment that she appeared unsurprised by the young servant being singled out for such an honour. After all, everybody knew of Madame’s fondness for the boy.

      They ate their soup in silence, a silence Agnès at first attributed to their exhaustion and the emotion of their discovery. And yet something about Clément’s demeanour and his lack of appetite intrigued her. She waited until Adeline had served Gilbert the Simpleton’s fine trout en croute and then, unable to contain herself any longer, she questioned him. The steaming pastry gave off a delicious smell of clove and ginger.

      ‘I sense that you are pensive, serious. You’re picking at your food. What’s the matter?’

      The young boy looked down at his trencher24 in silence.

      ‘Come now, Clément, is it as bad as all that?’ Agnès insisted.

      ‘Yes, Madame,’ he whispered, almost in tears.

      ‘Tell me, quick – you are frightening me.’

      ‘I … I lied to you and I am terribly ashamed of myself.’

      ‘You lied to me? That’s impossible.’

      ‘It’s true, Madame. I was afraid you’d be angry and … the longer I kept it from you, the more difficult it became to tell you the truth.’

      Agnès’s incredulity gave way to a feeling of unease. She ordered:

      ‘Tell me this instant. I demand that you stop shilly-shallying and confess.’

      ‘I … I sneaked into Clairets Abbey at night.’

      ‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’ Agnès whispered, stunned.

      ‘I discovered a secret library.’

      ‘Clément … Have you lost your head?’

      ‘Oh no, Madame, I have not. How do you think I knew about Guy Faucoi’s Consultationes ad inquisitores haereticae pravitatis and about that slim volume describing the terrible torture methods used by the Inquisition?’

      ‘A knowledge that helped me to survive,’ Agnès added. ‘Carry on.’

      ‘Nobody but the Abbess appears to know the library exists. I went back there night after night. If only you knew how many marvels, discoveries, advancements for mankind are hidden within those windowless walls!’

      Overcome with panic, the Dame de Souarcy exclaimed: ‘How could you have been so foolish! The Abbess would have thrashed you if she’d found you there!’

      ‘I know.’

      ‘I should be furious with you for being so disobedient, so devious …’

      ‘But are you, Madame?’ asked Clément woefully.

      ‘I should be! However, I am unforgivably weak where you are concerned.’

      The young boy stared into her eyes, and a look of immense relief appeared on his face as he saw a smile play across her lips.

      ‘Indeed, I find it impossible to stay angry with you for very long. Moreover … Had you not warned me about those inquisitorial ruses, I would have fallen into every single trap Florin laid for me.’ A twinkle of amusement lit up her grey-blue eyes, which were trained on him, and she said in hushed tones: ‘And, besides, I have an insatiable interest in books. Tell me. Tell me about everything you found there.’

      He revealed every single one of his discoveries, and was enthralled by the changing expressions on her face: concern, surprise, awe, joy, anger and dazzlement. He told her about the earth moving round the sun; he described the marvels of Greek, Jewish and Arabic medicine; assured her that unicorns, fairies and ogres did not exist; and finally he spoke of the knight Eustache de Rioux’s journal, of the predictions and birth charts it contained and of the Vallombroso treatise, which still eluded him. She listened, leaning slightly towards him, open-mouthed, and he reflected that she was without doubt the most overwhelming, the most magnificent mortal created by God in his infinite goodness to light up the lives of others. When he had finished, she remained silent for a few moments then said:

      ‘It’s astonishing! I’m speechless. All of a sudden I feel cold. Ask Adeline to add a few logs to the fire.’

      ‘I will do it. The poor girl must be exhausted, not that she complains about having twice as much work to do since that rat Mabile’s departure.’

      ‘You’re right. Tell her she may go to bed and that we enjoyed her meal very much. And tell her that her cooking is as good if not better than Mabile’s.’

      ‘She’ll swell with pride.’

      ‘Pride, provided it is fleeting, can be a salve, especially to a wretched girl to whom life has not been kind. And besides, if her pride remains focused on her soups and roasts, I see no harm.’

      He obeyed. During the ensuing moments of solitude, Agnès sat, the earthenware goblet of mulled wine in front of her, her mind empty. No, not empty. Far away. All of this confirmed what she had long suspected but had been unwilling to admit. What exactly was she afraid of? She couldn’t say. The truth, perhaps?

      Her thoughts drifted. Mathilde, always Mathilde. The rage that had roused her, despite her exhaustion, when the young girl had tried to send Clément to the stake, had not turned to hatred, despite her prayers. More than anything else, Agnès would have liked to be able to close her heart and mind to the girl. Of course she did not blindly believe that Eudes’s villainy was entirely to blame for turning her daughter’s mind. Even so, the scoundrel had done his best to foster the bad seeds planted in Mathilde’s soul. And, indeed, Agnès herself felt responsible, at least in part, for their very existence. She blamed herself for not succeeding in stamping them out completely. She couldn’t pretend that she was unaware of their existence, their origin, their very nature. These seeds were a punishment for the sins of the mother.

      Clément came back and sat down beside her, and they watched the fire stir again from its embers. The feeble warmth it dispersed through the cavernous, icy room, illuminated by resin torches fixed along the walls, did nothing to drive out the chill Agnès felt in her bones.

      ‘Speak to me, Madame. Scold me if you must, but say something,’ implored Clément, suddenly unnerved by the long silence.

      ‘Dear Clément … I’m afraid.’ She buried her face in her hands and declared: ‘A beautiful, brave lady whose Christian name you bear once told me that fear is no defence against pain. She was right, and yet … I miss her terribly. I’ve missed her for so long. I tell you I’m afraid of not living up to Madame Clémence de Larnay’s expectations of me. She was so fearless, so determined … and loving and loyal too.’

      ‘But you do live up to them, Madame. You live up to something that is immeasurable.’

      ‘They are sweet words. Forgive me for not believing I deserve them. For you see, Clément, I was so afraid in that evil dungeon. Afraid of death – or, worse still, of suffering. Afraid of giving in, of acting like a coward and denouncing others, of surrendering. Madame Clémence would have held her head high, stood her ground