‘No, good master, no,’ stammered the terrified man.
‘If you and your fellow scoundrels aren’t robbing me blind or idling like slugs, then where is my week’s quota of iron ore? Not in the paltry sack you brought me earlier, I hope?’
The other man just nodded.
‘Yes? Are you making fun of me or what? Why, there’s little more than a stone’s weight in there! Where is the rest? You’ve sold it, haven’t you …?’ He glowered. ‘Ah, I see … You’re robbing me blind to pay your taxes, your tallage11 or, worse still, your emancipation. Confess or I’ll skin you alive!’
‘No, my lord. You’re mistaken. That sack’s worth is all we could get out of the mine, I swear on my soul. The mine, it’s … well, it’s …’
Jules’s words petered out. He was trembling with fright. His master’s temper had already claimed several lives. It was rumoured that he’d wrung that strumpet Mabile’s throat for her. Mabile had recently returned to the chateau after spending some time with the master’s half-sister, Madame de Souarcy. She was a comely wench, that temptress, but a nasty piece of work.
‘The mine? What about it?’ Eudes growled.
‘It’s finished, exhausted, there’s nothing left in it. Not an ounce. It’s not our fault, master. We’ve dug until our hands bled. There’s no ore left. It’s finished. I swear it on my son’s life.’
Baron de Larnay leapt to his feet, overturning the bench he’d been sitting on. Jules thought his last hour had come, and stifled a cry as he crossed himself. Eudes roared:
‘Out of my sight! Out of my sight this instant before I change my mind!’
The foreman didn’t wait to be told twice and raced out of the main hall, thanking heaven for his life, which for the time being was out of danger. After all, he possessed nothing more – not even the liberty to leave.
Eudes flopped against the edge of the table. It was true. If he had flogged the men in recent weeks, it was only in a vain attempt to deceive himself that there was some ore left, enough to keep the King happy for a while.
The mine had for generations been the source of the Larnay family’s relative peace of mind vis-à-vis the royal powers, as well as their family fortune – of which only a few tawdry relics now remained. His ancestors had cleverly negotiated with the French kings while continuing to court their enemy: the neighbouring English. The implication was guarded but clear: the ore would go to the more munificent and ‘congenial’ monarch. Thus his grandfather had summed up their situation with the bonhomie of a wealthy draper: ‘A man’s wife is never as attractive as when she is pleasing to other men. And men are generous only to women who please.’ The bonhomie had run dry and the ‘attractive wife’ was barren. The mine had already begun to show signs of decline shortly before the death of Baron Robert, Eudes’s father.
With a shaking hand, he picked up the pitcher, splashing wine onto the dark wood as he filled his goblet. He staggered, grabbing the table just in time to steady himself.
Mathilde! That stupid, vicious little harlot prancing about the chateau in her aunt’s faded finery, giving orders and scolding the servants as though she were their future mistress. They all detested her. He detested her! It had all gone wrong because of her stupidity during the Inquisition trial. Mathilde … Was she expecting him to deflower her in the marital bed? Was that what she was waiting for? Strangely, although it had been his intention, the thought no longer excited him. Mathilde no longer existed if he were unable to use her to hurt Agnès. He belched then laughed raucously. What need had he to court a young maiden with tender kisses when he could mount as many girls as he wanted who would do exactly as he pleased? If Mathilde’s stupidity was to blame for the failure of her beloved uncle’s plans, then she would have to pay. She would pay for that and for everything else. In his drunken rage it didn’t matter to Eudes that a total stranger had stabbed the inquisitor to death. The fault was Mathilde’s. She was to blame for everything – even for not being more like Agnès.
Yes, the little fool must pay. Then perhaps he would be able to get some sleep.
He reflected. His face broke into a smile as he had a sudden inspiration. He called a servant, who was also careful to keep her distance.
‘Go at once and inform Mademoiselle my niece that I wish to see her.’
The girl curtseyed hastily before obeying.
Mathilde had requested a few moments to make herself look pretty before receiving her handsome, beloved uncle. She had pinched her cheeks and chewed her lips to make them pinker, and debated at length whether or not to let her hair down. No. A lady only unbraids her plaits or uncoils her hair when going to bed with her spouse or lover. She had hurried over to the little stool beside the dressing table and adopted what she hoped was a languid yet elegant pose, with perhaps even a hint of provocativeness.
One look at her uncle’s sullen face had told her that she would not be discovering any carnal secrets that night. She had sat up, frustrated. Eudes had seen through her charade, and been overwhelmed by a feeling of violent loathing. The little slut. She didn’t even have the defence of poverty, which he recognised in other women while taking full advantage of it.
‘Dear Uncle, how glad I am to see you again.’
‘I fear you won’t be for very long, my dear, sweet child.’
‘You frighten me.’
‘I’m desperate. Your mother is still blighting our lives.’
‘What!’
‘She demands your return. It is her privilege, since the outcome of her trial, however unjust, did not strip her of her rights.’ Thanks to you, you little wretch, he thought before resuming: ‘I fear she will wreak revenge on you for your bravery and your affection for me, which warms my heart. I know her well. Underneath all that innocence lies a ruthless woman. Oh dear God … When I think of you in that pigsty, Manoir de Souarcy – your pretty hands ruined by drudgery, your lovely figure swathed in rags … it wrings my heart.’
It wrung Mathilde’s equally. Indeed, the mere thought of it turned her stomach. No! She would not go back to Manoir de Souarcy, to her mother, to that filth, those evil-smelling serfs and the unbearable coldness of those ugly stone walls. She wanted merriment, fine food, lights, tapestries, servants, beautiful clothes and jewellery.
‘I won’t go! I won’t go back to that stinking Souarcy.’ Panic-stricken and near to tears, she implored: ‘Please, Uncle, I beg you to let me stay here with you.’
‘It is my dearest wish, sweet child. But how? I cannot fight your mother. Not any more.’
‘But … I will come of age soon,12 in less than five months’ time to be exact.’
‘Where can I hide you all that time so that you may come back to me afterwards?’ Eudes drew close to his half-niece, lowering his head meekly before driving home his advantage: ‘Madame, it took several goblets of wine for me to pluck up the courage to make this confession. Is it not extraordinary for a man who fears only God?’ the coward lied.
The young girl became dizzy with expectancy at his sudden submissiveness and use of the word ‘Madame’. She simpered:
‘You’re scaring me, Monsieur.’
‘And yet that is the last thing I wish to do at this moment. You … Surely, in your wisdom, you must have noticed that I have developed an … attachment to you that cannot be explained by mere blood ties, which, on the contrary … make it difficult, unthinkable even.’
Mathilde’s heart missed a beat. Finally!
‘Monsieur …’ she gasped, clasping to her mouth her hand, which bristled with rings belonging to her dead aunt, Madame Apolline.
‘I