Lady Agnes Mystery Vol.2. Andrea Japp

I … I am the one who has acted foolishly, but I am too proud to admit it. I was excited by the prospect of a battle between me and this snake. Blinded by my own arrogance, I aimed to prove that I was the more cunning, the cleverer of the two. I looked for the subtlest ruses, the cleverest way of trapping her when what mattered was swiftness and efficiency. In short, I confess to having selfishly engaged in a battle of wits, forgetting that the most important thing was to find and destroy the culprit.’

      With these words she left, devastated by the extent of her own recklessness.

      Éleusie remained alone, beside herself with sorrow, speechless and unable to move.

       Herb gardens, Clairets Abbey, Perche, December 1304

      A young novice who had recently arrived looked up as Annelette Beaupré came hurtling out of one of the guest-house doors into the herb garden. She watched the tall woman stop to catch her breath and raise her hand to her chest. Esquive d’Estouville paused, waiting for her ‘mission’ to approach. She must protect Annelette and Éleusie de Beaufort and at all costs find the thief who had stolen the manuscripts before they left the abbey. She had been chosen because of her talent for disguise as much as for her expert swordsmanship. Éleusie de Beaufort was the aunt of the beautiful archangel whose life she had protected with her sword in Mondoubleau Forest, whose body she had protected from the cold by holding him close as he lay unconscious. Two months ago. An eternity it seemed to her.

      Annelette walked on, stifling the urge to burst into tears, to slump to her knees and pray for forgiveness. Caught up in her sorrow and shame, she did not notice a young novice crouching down in order to turn over the earth, and tripped over her. The young woman stood up, stammering an apology:

      ‘Forgive me, sister. I was so busy digging the frozen earth I did not hear you approach.’

      Annelette studied her, shaking her head. She didn’t recognise the beautiful face. No doubt she was a new arrival. An offering to God,5 perhaps. Her eyes lowered in a show of humility, the young woman asked:

      ‘Are you not Sister Annelette, the apothecary nun whose skills are much praised? I have yet to distinguish which names, faces and functions go together.’

      ‘It is the herbs that deserve praise, if anything. My talent consists merely in their preparation. And who might you be?’

      An immense pair of pale-amber, almost yellow eyes looked slowly up at her.

      ‘I am new here. My name is Esquive, but when I have the indescribable joy of being received into your order, I will take the name Sister Hélène.’

      ‘You have chosen well. She was a remarkable woman and a true saint.’

      With these words, she left the young woman and went to shut herself away in her herbarium, her world. A few yards from there, Esquive d’Estouville dropped her hoe – a tool unsuited to the season – and, unhindered by the short sword lying flat against her thigh, walked nimbly over to the scriptorium. She had attained her first goal and been prudent. She had coiled her unruly mop of wavy hair under the shorter veil worn by the novices in order to conceal it. However, her remarkable eyes were unmistakable and could give her away, for the Spectre whom she had seen off with her sword was hiding within these walls. Each time Esquive met one of the sisters – a rare occurrence since she had shrewdly requested to be assigned to the more onerous outdoor tasks – she lowered her eyes in an appropriate display of humility.

      Annelette closed the shutters, bolted the door and began sobbing in the unwelcoming gloom.

      How long was it since she had wept like this? How long since she had felt so deeply wounded? A lifetime.

      An unbidden image broke through her despair: her father and brother sitting bolt upright behind the table in the main hall, staring at her critically, callously sizing her up. She did not feel hurt by their lack of affection, for it had never been forthcoming in her case, and she assumed that she no doubt deserved the coldness that had surrounded her for as long as she could remember.

      That day, her mother had not deigned to leave her chambers where she prayed day and night, scarcely raising her eyes from her psalter, a bleak smile on her lips. The impossibly tall, lanky young woman sat with her hands clasped in her lap, awaiting the verdict of her father and brother, which was swift.

      ‘Are you mad, daughter? You, assist your brother in the art of medicine? You must have taken leave of your senses.’

      ‘But, Monsieur my father, I am well versed in the art of science and medicine.’ In a last-ditch attempt to convince them, she had said, almost imploringly: ‘You have on many occasions seen for yourself that I can be of considerable help.’

      ‘What impudence! How dare you, Mademoiselle! Why, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! Have you forgotten that you are a mere woman and that women understand nothing of science? Their minds are incapable of understanding such complexities. Admittedly, they are good at remembering and imitating certain procedures and gestures. But when it comes to analysis and diagnostics …’

      The old physic, who considered himself an aesculapius,6 despite having more medical blunders to his name than successes, had turned with a smile of complicity to his son who was an equally lamentable practitioner:

      ‘If you’re not careful, Grégoire, this conceited young woman will be giving you lessons on how to bleed a patient!’

      Grégoire had laughed smugly, then looked his sister up and down with disgust before declaring in a bored voice:

      ‘What of it … If she cares to wash dirty linen and prepare ointments, it will save me an apothecary’s wages. She can also help my wife with the children and the housework.’

      ‘That is a generous offer, son. What do you say to that, Mademoiselle? Remember that you aren’t getting any younger and I can’t afford to keep an ageing daughter. As for finding you a husband …’

      Annelette couldn’t help but notice the look of malicious glee on the two men’s almost identical faces. What pleasure they derived from humiliating her at such little cost to themselves. Suddenly, it had dawned upon her. The enormity of the revelation had struck her like a bolt of lightning: they had been afraid of her all these years. Her keen intelligence, her capacity to learn and to use her knowledge terrified them. Thanks to her, they had been forced to face up to their own limitations and they’d never forgiven her for it.

      Curiously, this painful truth had freed her. She no longer belonged there because they didn’t want her. She had no place among them. She had declared firmly yet calmly:

      ‘I refuse the offer.’

      Her father’s mouth set in an angry grimace and he threatened:

      ‘Well now … We’re no monsters and we can’t force you. In which case, Mademoiselle, I see only one other solution …’ At this, he had turned to his son and sniggered before adding sarcastically: ‘Unless of course a frog miraculously appears and turns into Prince Charming!’

      Grégoire had imitated his father, giggling at the unkind joke.

      ‘There is one other solution,’ repeated the man whom she now knew to be heartless. ‘A nunnery, my child.’

      ‘As you wish, Monsieur. It is my duty to obey you.’

      She had been unable to stop the irony from showing in her voice and her father had exploded with rage:

      ‘God’s wounds, girl! You cause me to regret bitterly the education you have received …’

      She had received nothing but humiliation and shame. She alone was responsible for the knowledge she had assimilated through being observant and attentive.

      ‘It just goes to show what an ungrateful girl you are. And as for your impudence, well, it bears out the