Lady Agnes Mystery Vol.2. Andrea Japp

a little the suffocating stench of humanity, of dirt and detritus that seemed to emanate from the rows of hovels. A man approached her. She looked him up and down. He was ugly, dirty and too old. As for his rotten teeth, they disgusted her. She waved him away. On the other hand, the lithe young figure she noticed loitering next to the stairs leading down to the seedy Bianca Donna tavern took her fancy. Aude drew level with him. He was handsome, very handsome indeed. He looked not yet twenty. He stared at her boldly and paid her a crude compliment.

      Aude retorted in perfect Italian:

      ‘Please don’t speak. You will ruin my pleasure.’ She pulled two shiny coins out of her purse and said: ‘You will do exactly as I say. No more, no less.’

      Suddenly sobered, the young man pocketed the money and nodded.

      Aude was exhausted when she rose from the bed in the tiny room at the house of ill repute masquerading as a tavern. The man’s smell on her skin still excited her, but she would soon find it intolerable. A mallow and lavender bath would wash it away. He lay, asleep, and she looked at him properly for the first time. What a handsome specimen he was with his swarthy olive skin and thick hair descending from his sternum to end in a point at his pubis. As she had hoped, he had been forceful and brutish. Aude would not deny that her taste for virile men was born of the satisfaction she took in bringing them to heel. It was no doubt necessary to her pleasure. And what of it! Who cared about these witless, charmless oafs who died every day like flies?

      A voice startled her:

      ‘That was … You ladies are a sight better than any whores or slatterns. You could teach them a thing or two – those whores, I mean.’

      The stench was already becoming unbearable. She slipped into her dress and gestured for him to lace up the back. He stood up and tried to run his tongue along her neck then thrust his sex against her. She turned and glared at him. He grumbled:

      ‘All right …’ His sulking face suddenly broke into a grin. ‘If I’d known … when I saw you going into the Pope’s palace … What a coincidence, eh? I was there. I saw you. It’s not often you see a lady go in there. They say that whores sometimes dress up as ladies and slip in, but that mostly it’s spies. Are you a spy, then? You’ve certainly got what it takes.’

      ‘What a pity,’ muttered Aude under her breath, in French this time, and, turning, gave him a provocative smile.

      ‘Ah, I knew you wanted more. It’s not every day you meet a stud like me!’ He pulled her roughly, pressing his body tightly against hers. She manoeuvred him over to the straw mattress.

      The young man’s eyes opened wide and his mouth gaped as though he were trying to cry out. A red stream coloured his teeth before running down his chin. Aude pushed the dagger in deeper. He collapsed face down on the floor. She bent down to pull the blade from his back and leapt aside, but not quickly enough. A jet of blood spurted over her dress. She let out a sigh of relief. Fortune had smiled on her – red on crimson wouldn’t show. She paused, a look of disgust on her face, as she waited for the man’s body to stop twitching. Sweet Lord, how she detested watching death at work, even when she was its agent.

       Alençon, Perche, December 1304

      It was dusk when Agnan, secretary to the late Nicolas Florin, left the Inquisition headquarters. Two weeks had passed since the demise of the Grand Inquisitor, allegedly stabbed to death during a chance encounter with a drunkard. The sickly young man was ready to swear that these were the happiest weeks of his life. He was equally ready to swear on his life that he had been close to glimpsing an act of divine intervention. In Agnan’s eyes it had been so remorseless, so unquestionably just that it could not have been anything but divine in essence. Not that he was superstitious or foolish enough to believe that an avenging angel had intervened to slay the beautiful and ignoble torturer. On the contrary, Agnan had gradually persuaded himself that the Knight of Justice and Grace, Francesco de Leone, had used his sword to defend God’s lambs. For only a wolf could protect lambs against other wild animals. What other explanation could there be for the Hospitaller’s* timely intervention at the start of the torture of this woman who had so overwhelmed the young clerk?

      His euphoria caused him to quicken his pace without him even realising it. He whose ugliness made people turn away. His beady eyes, sharp nose and receding chin rendered him unsightly, gave him a weaselly look that inspired mistrust, even disgust. And yet that radiant creature, that woman, had touched him, had gazed into his eyes as though she were able to see past his deceptive exterior, his outward mask. Her soul, unbreakable as a diamond, had caressed his, and he would bear its trace for ever. What joy, what indescribable joy he had felt at being so close to perfection.

      A charming thought occurred to him. He was surprised that he hadn’t noticed it before: they shared the same Christian name.

      Agnès, Agnan. This coincidence, though meaningless and trivial, filled him with pleasure. Agnan shivered, but did not think to pull up his cowl. A stubborn layer of powdery snow had settled on the cobblestones and crunched beneath his wooden clogs. A damp fog clung to the walls, enveloping the houses and closed shops in an eerie silence. A smile played across the young man’s face. He was oblivious to the biting cold seeping through his habit of homespun wool and his threadbare cape. He, Agnan, had played a role in saving Madame de Souarcy. The meagre offering of bacon and eggs he had filched from the kitchens and secretly taken down to her cell had helped to give her the strength she needed to resist the shameful trial that had ensued. It was in part owing to him that the knight Leone, whom he had shown to her cell and warned of the imminent arrival of the monstrous inquisitor, had rescued her. He felt his face grow pink with shame. Was it not wildly arrogant of him to assign himself a role, however small, in Agnès de Souarcy’s rescue? And yet he needed desperately to believe that he had laboured obstinately and selflessly, despite the fear instilled in him by the beast Florin.

      Wrapped up in these, by turns, sad and joyous thoughts, he was unaware of the shadowy figure tailing him at a distance. He turned into Rue de la Poêle-Percée which led to Place de l’Étape-au-Vin, and wandered distractedly towards Saint-Aignan Church. In order to save himself a detour, he decided to cut through a narrow alleyway between two rows of houses made of wood and cob with shingle roofs, reflecting that, if he were attacked by thieves, nobody would leave their homes on such a dark night to come to his aid. He shrugged. Only a fool or a madman would rob a humble clerk who possessed only the clothes on his back, which were scarcely less ragged than those of a pauper.

      In reality, Agnan was clear in his mind. He knew that he continually mulled over his encounter with Agnès de Souarcy, obsessively recollecting every last detail, because he was searching for a clue. Veering between hope and despair, he sought proof that his role in Madame de Souarcy’s life, however tenuous, had been preordained, and that it was perhaps not yet over.

      He slowed his pace, overwhelmed by a sudden sense of shame. How presumptuous, how conceited of him to cast himself in the role of the heroic architect of some plan that far exceeded him!

      It was then that he heard the muffled sound of steps approaching down the evil-smelling alley. He stopped dead in his tracks and listened, trying to see into the encircling gloom. His alarm quickly gave way to panic and his heart started pounding wildly. He was too weak to put up a fight or defend himself. He would flee – make a beeline for the small square surrounding Saint-Aignan Church. Despite the piercing cold, beads of sweat had formed on his brow and trickled down his pale cheeks. He took a deep breath to try to stifle the fear that was choking him. He must run, find the courage to move, but his legs refused to do his bidding. He froze like a rabbit staring into the open jaws of his predator. The tall figure approached him, unhurriedly now, slowly becoming visible in the nocturnal fog. Agnan could see the long cape flapping around a pair of ankles, the glint of a sword banging against a leg clad in a thick leather boot. His head swam and he stifled a dry sob. He fell back against the wall of a dwelling, powerless to cry out for help.

      The figure came over to him, bent down and pulled him up by his armpits. The astonished Agnan was only just able to gasp: