La Haute-Gravière, Perche, December 1304
A cold, damp wind had risen and was gusting into the throats of the two intrepid travellers, who were reckless enough to have ventured out as night began encroaching upon the remains of the day.
Agnès gripped Clément tightly with one arm while with the other she controlled Églantine, the powerful grey-black Perche14 mare. The horse stood higher than a man, at over fifteen hands, evidence of the breed having been crossed with stallions from Boulogne several centuries earlier. These powerful dray horses, bred for their strength and stamina, could carry a French knight to the Holy Land, keep up a slow trot and hurdle obstacles. But they tired easily at a gallop and consequently the journey from Manoir de Souarcy had been a slow one.
Agnès patted the animal’s powerful neck, praising her:
‘Good girl, Églantine. We’re here.’
The mare came to a halt and waited patiently as Clément slid down her foreleg to the ground and Agnès jumped from her side-saddle, equipped only with one left stirrup. As she landed, her feet sank into the reddish mire. She winced and the young boy enquired in a concerned voice:
‘The wounds that fiend inflicted on you aren’t yet healed, are they, Madame?’
‘Besides the scars left by the lash, I bear scarcely any trace of them, thanks to Agnan’s kind attentions, and to the monks who took turns nursing me, but especially to the well-nigh magical ointment sent to me by my Lord d’Authon’s physician, your beloved Joseph. However, I do occasionally get twinges in damp weather. But don’t worry, the worst is behind me.’
The young woman lifted the front of her skirts and walked forward a few paces. She gave a nervous sigh as she cast her eye over her bleak inheritance. A bed of angry nettles had colonised the ten acres of arid land. No other plant was tenacious enough to grow there. The approaching darkness only added to the desolation of the place, which was battered by incessant winds and rain.
The sound of Clément’s breathing distracted her from these depressing thoughts. The young boy was gasping, as if he’d been running. He murmured:
‘Now that we’re here, I feel afraid. Afraid that I’m mistaken, that my intuition is only a fantasy.’
Clément’s discomfort roused Agnès, who stood up straight and declared in an almost scathing tone:
‘Well, we’re here now, and it’s too late to start worrying. Let’s see if your excellent Joseph de Bologne’s stone can tell us whether this barren soil contains any iron ore.’
‘Monsieur Joseph showed me how to carry out a simple experiment using this remarkable instrument. He asked me to treat it with care for it is rare and priceless, and to keep it a secret as a precaution.’
‘I see. And you refer to this big lump of rough-hewn stone as an “instrument”!’
‘Yes. As I already explained to you, it comes from Magnesia, in Asia Minor. The history of this stone, known as magnetite, is a troubled one. Five thousand years ago, a shepherd by the name of Magnès15 left his flock grazing below while he climbed onto a boulder to watch over it. The metal tip of his crook appeared to stick to the rock, and when he let go it remained upright. He was terrified and thought it had been bewitched. Even Lucretius and Pliny the Elder attributed magical powers to the stone.16 A dozen years ago, my mentor Joseph came across a letter drafted by a man called Peter Peregrinus17 detailing everything that was known about magnetite yet still unknown in our kingdoms.18 According to Monsieur Joseph there is nothing magical about the stone’s properties; it is a fascinating scientific phenomenon we have yet to comprehend.’
Agnès listened attentively to the explanation then summed up:
‘So, if the crook stayed upright on the boulder, it follows that the stone … somehow fastened itself to the metal?’
He smiled, pleased at rediscovering her agile mind.
‘Yes, Madame, it attracts metal.’
‘I’m beginning to share your admiration for this Joseph whom I’ve never met. Hurry, it will soon be dark and I want to see this prodigious stone at work. Églantine knows the way home, and my short sword will dissuade any young brigand, but I would prefer to be home before nightfall. What must I do to help you?’
Clément replied enigmatically:
‘Nothing, Madame, just watch over me as you have always done.’
She had the almost painful feeling that these words – unrelated to the experiment the young boy was about to carry out – summed up more clearly than any lengthy exposition what their life would be like from then on. They were alone, a woman and a young girl disguised as a boy for her own protection, for both their protection, and yet they were united by a love that was pure and therein lay their strength. Agnès had been given further proof of this when a hideous vision of death had approached her in her sinister dungeon at the Inquisition headquarters in Alençon. How much did Clémence/Clément, still so young, really grasp of this love, of the bond between them? And she, the Dame de Souarcy, what more did she know of it besides her own certainties?
‘And as I always will. Even at the risk of my own life,’ she whispered softly.
Clément looked up at her with his blue-green eyes and smiled as he nodded. Then, ending this stirring moment that was so intense that words had become superfluous, he declared with forced cheer:
‘I will perform the experiment flat on my stomach.’
He rummaged in his satchel and pulled out two long strips of hessian, which he wrapped around his hands and forearms before walking over to the mass of blackish nettles.
‘These horrid weeds sting even when they’re frozen.’
‘They provide an invaluable source of compost.’
‘Whose formula was brought back by the Knights Templar. But that doesn’t stop them prickling like the devil.’
The mention of the military order brought back the memory of the mysterious Knight Hospitaller. Agnès called out to Clément as he walked away towards the carpet of nettles:
‘What do you know about the knight Francesco de Leone?’
‘Very little, in truth. I first heard his name when the good Agnan mentioned him the day the Comte and I arrived in Alençon. Then I learnt from you that he is the nephew and adopted son of the Abbess of Clairets, Éleusie de Beaufort. But I’d wager my life he killed that fiend Nicolas Florin. I give no credit to the story of a drunken stranger having stabbed the Grand Inquisitor, your tormentor, to death.’ He added in a sharp, almost angry voice: ‘Let me tell you, Madame, that he pre-empted us. My Lord Artus d’Authon would have given him no quarter. And neither would I.’
Agnès suppressed a smile:
‘I have no doubts as to your courage. You are my brave defenders.’
Clément knelt on the ground and continued:
‘Going back to the subject of Francesco de Leone, I’ve never met the man, but I’m grateful to him for saving your life, even though he prevented us from doing so. I wonder …’
Clément paused suddenly as he pushed aside a mass of nettles with his swaddled arm. One question among