Lady Agnes Mystery Vol.2. Andrea Japp

Benedetti manipulated this fear and used it to his advantage.

      The elegant, golden-haired vision, clad from head to toe in crimson, walked in, preceded by a heady aroma of musk and iris.

      Benedetti’s tense expression immediately slackened.

      ‘Aude, my dearest lady … You are like a salve that heals all my troubles. Pray, take a seat. May I offer you a glass of fine wine from the foothills of Mount Vesuvius?’

      Aude lifted the delicate veil concealing a face so stunningly beautiful that it attracted every gaze.

      ‘Ah … the tears of Christ, its smoothness is renowned.’

      ‘The Lacrima Christi, yes.’

      ‘And offered by you … it is undoubtedly on a par with receiving absolution,’ she said teasingly.

      He smiled as he filled two tall glasses. He sometimes felt he knew this woman as well as if she were his own creation. A single facet of this piece of perfection with emerald-green eyes, a tiny smiling mouth and a ruthless intelligence remained for ever a mystery to him. Did she really have no desire for atonement or was she hiding a festering wound of remorse beneath her elegant exterior? Benedetti had lived with his own wound for so long he had the impression that it was his most faithful, cruel companion. It would suppurate during the night, tormenting him ceaselessly, tearing his soul apart until dawn.

      They took a few sips in silence before Honorius admitted:

      ‘You were right, my dear. Madame de Souarcy is free, cleared of all suspicion.’

      ‘Your henchmen failed.’

      ‘One of them – the Grand Inquisitor – paid with his life.’

      ‘That is something, at least. I do find such people distasteful,’ Aude remarked casually.

      ‘They are useful to us.’

      ‘Even henchmen must be chosen wisely. So, the little bastard noblewoman has trumped the most powerful arm of the Church? Well, that’s what I’d call a humiliating defeat!’

      ‘If it were only a question of wounded pride, I could live with it. Regrettably, I see in it the nefarious work of my enemies and proof of their mounting strength. It also shows me that Madame de Souarcy is extremely important to them. She must die, and quickly … That woman must die … As for her shadow, that little rascal who, according to my spies, is fiercely loyal to her, he must share the same fate.’ He closed his eyes and added in a whisper: ‘May God bless and receive them.’

      ‘She … They will die. I will see to it.’

      Aude de Neyrat paused and drank the contents of her glass unhurriedly. For once she allowed her worst memories to flood back.

      Aude was orphaned at a young age and placed under the tutelage of an uncle. The old scoundrel had been quick to confuse family duty with the droit de seigneur. Admittedly not for long, for the toothless scoundrel had died an agonisingly painful drawn-out death – exactly as his ward had envisaged. She had stood over him devotedly, dabbing his perspiring face with a cloth impregnated with poison. At the tender age of twelve Aude had discovered that she had a flair for poison, murder and deceit equalled only by her beauty and brains. She would soon put her precious talents to work in order to inherit two substantial bequests – one of them from an elderly husband. However, she made the mistake of sparing the husband’s very young nephew; the boy was so delightful and entertaining that Aude hadn’t the heart to send him to an early grave – a serious mistake that would nearly cost her her life. The sweet young collateral heir proved to be every bit as venal as his young aunt by marriage. He alerted the chief bailiff of Auxerre’s men to the misfortune that appeared to have befallen all of Madame de Neyrat’s relatives, and demanded his inheritance. Aude was arrested. A horde of treacherous rats immediately came out of the woodwork to accuse her of a range of sins from poisoning to fornicating with demons. Honorius Benedetti, a simple bishop at the time, was passing through the town during her trial. Madame de Neyrat’s striking beauty had bowled him over. He had made sure he took part in her questioning.

      Aude recalled every last detail of their first encounter in the vaulted room at the chateau in Auxerre. Despite the chill of those thick stone walls, Benedetti was perspiring and fanning himself with an elegant fan made of fine strips of mother of pearl, a gift from a lady in Jumièges long ago, he had explained with a knowing smile. The prelate standing before her was slim and small. He had graceful, slender, well-manicured hands; feminine hands. He had urged her to confess her sins. And yet something in his manner had suggested to the young woman that she should do the exact opposite. Aude had confessed nothing and, much to the delight of Honorius – himself a past master at the art of sophistry, had ensnared her judges in a web of lies and deceit. She learnt later that he had done everything in his power to clear her of the serious charges hanging over her, and had even accused the beleaguered nephew of aggravated perjury. The youth, alarmed by the bishop’s implicit threats, had retracted his accusation and had begged forgiveness of his dear aunt, whom he confessed to having seriously misjudged. One night, one remarkable and inevitable night, Benedetti had joined her at the town house she had inherited from her deceased husband. Between the sheets, dishevelled by their delightful folly, they had discovered that they were two of a kind, equal in strength. Aude had sensed that she was Honorius’s only carnal transgression since taking his vows. In the morning when he had taken his leave of her, she had known – without needing to suggest it tactfully herself – that he would not return. Closing his eyes and smiling, he had kissed her hand and murmured:

      ‘I thank you for this sublime night, Madame, for I do not sense in any way that it was compensation for having taken care of your trial. Thank you equally for having provided me with a few hours of bitter regret and sweet memories.’

      A pox on memories.

      Aude de Neyrat went on, intrigued:

      ‘My dear friend … Were you really such a sentimentalist that first time we met, when you saved my life?’

      ‘A sentimentalist? Why else would I have saved you when I knew you to be guilty?’

      ‘Because it amused you and perhaps because you desired me a little?’

      ‘All of those things at once. And because you moved me …’

      ‘I moved you?’

      ‘You stood alone against all those men, most of them hypocrites. You were fearless, and yet they would have crushed you. In reality, the choice was a simple one. I could fight on your side, or give them free rein and allow mediocrity to triumph over brilliance. I made my choice.’

      ‘That is undoubtedly the most wonderful compliment I am ever likely to receive and I thank you for it,’ she avowed, with unusual earnestness. ‘And now I must prepare for my trip if I wish to arrive post haste in the charming county of Perche.’

      ‘You will be stopping off in Chartres on the way, my dear.’

      He reached into a drawer and retrieved a fat purse and a few sheets of vellum covered in his small, nervous scrawl.

      ‘Here is enough money to cover your immediate needs, as well as a few recommendations, instructions, names and addresses. I implore you, Aude, do not fail me …’

      ‘I don’t recall ever having failed … at anything. We shall meet again very soon, my friend, to celebrate your success.’

      A fresh breeze had risen in Saint Peter’s Square that lifted her veil like a wing. Aude de Neyrat walked hurriedly. Ever since Benedetti had evoked his emotion during their first meeting, she had been seized by a potent desire – unexpected and inopportune, given the number of arrangements she must make before her imminent departure. What of it! She would do better to satisfy her hunger as quickly as possible without another thought, and Aude knew how.

      She made her way towards Ponte Sant’Angelo, which spanned the river Tiber. Dusk already provided her with some cover. She entered a maze of streets which, though scarcely squalid, were certainly no place for a lady of her position