Annelette Beaupré tried hard to fight off a creeping sense of despair. She would find a way to keep the restrictions on leaving the abbey in place.
As she made her way over to the low door, which she had left ajar, another thought struck her. The handkerchief! Conscious of the fact that certain illnesses – notably pulmonary infections – are passed on by contact with a patient’s garments or personal effects, the murderess had no doubt stolen Jeanne’s handkerchief while she was asleep, and placed it within Éleusie’s reach. The Abbess’s frail constitution, in addition to her exhaustion and the anxiety she had suffered over the past few months, had done the rest. The snake only needed to follow the progress of the infection and poison the remedies she knew Annelette would use to treat the Abbess.
She would kill her – with her own bare hands if necessary. Annelette knew she was capable of it. Worse still, she longed to see the life snuffed out in that devil’s eyes, as she had seen it die in those of Éleusie de Beaufort.
The apothecary walked out quickly, locked the low door and pulled back the tapestry. She left Éleusie’s study, locking the door behind her. She would attend the removal of the body. She would prevent anybody from remaining in their deceased Reverend Mother’s chambers until a new Abbess had been appointed and installed, for then Annelette would have to hand back the keys.
Oh dear God … I beg you: make Francesco’s return swift.
Vatican Palace, Rome, December 1304
The camerlingo Honorius Benedetti studied the earnest expression on the shiny face of the French prelate sitting opposite him. Archbishop Foulques de Marzin was waiting for his advice. It was not long in coming:
‘My dear brother … my friend, what can I say? Naturally the King of France and the other European monarchs will use all their political might to influence the outcome of the forthcoming papal election, but ultimately the decision rests with the conclave. You will receive the vote of all the French prelates who do not wish to see an Italian elected to the Holy See – at any rate those humble enough to recognise that they themselves would not make good popes or those who refuse to cast their votes in return for … compensation.’
‘And how many of them do you suppose there are, Your Eminence? I mean who cannot be bought – that monstrous word – or are not driven by ambition?’
Marzin amused Benedetti – in an unpleasant sort of way, he had to confess. This bishop, who would stop at nothing to snatch the Holy See from his rivals, frowned and puckered his lips in distaste when he spoke of their greed for power and glory. A disturbing thought occurred to the camerlingo, which he attempted to brush aside. In the end, did he not have more in common with those ‘others’, his hidden enemies who were fighting for the coming of what they called the Infinite Light? They, too, believed that their lives were of no importance. That only the future mattered. Of course, they had chosen the wrong side, for men were men and no miracle, no sacrifice by the son of God who died on the cross would make them change in any enduring way. They sobbed, prayed, implored until the memory of the martyr’s purity began to fade, and then they continued their scheming, wicked ways.
Benedetti looked again at the man whose face reminded him of jellied fruit dipped in rancid syrup. He could not resist taunting him, although his good political sense told him simply to dupe the man.
‘Do you want the truth?’
‘I would expect nothing less from you, with respect.’
‘Very few.’
The syrupy expression faded, and Foulques de Marzin’s face, tumid and purple in colour from an overindulgence in rich food, became visibly distraught. How amusing he was indeed, this flabby lump who preached abstinence in a booming voice. Monseigneur de Marzin’s pressing need for money was common knowledge – money that allowed him to keep his voracious family, as well as a few exceedingly pretty and exceedingly young mistresses. Did he really imagine that he would be able to install them like a harem at the Vatican Palace? And why not? It wouldn’t be the first time. Marzin had come to him for support, for his vote, in exchange for which he was willing to make a great many concessions.
Suddenly this scene, which previously would have delighted the camerlingo to the point of making him draw it out as long as possible, ceased to amuse him.
He wanted this whining maggot out of his sight this instant. His presence suffocated the camerlingo.
‘My dear friend, you know how much I respect you. You are one of the lights of our church. Rest assured that you have my vote.’
The flabby face quivered with emotion, contentment most of all.
‘If it pleases God to make me His next representative on earth, believe me, Your Eminence, I will not forget your good deeds and your innumerable virtues. I will need men of faith by my side whom I can trust. I thank you most graciously.’
‘No, it is I who must thank you, dear Marzin, for being that candidate for whom I can cast my vote without fear of making the wrong choice.’
Honorius stood up to signal that the meeting was over. Believing he had achieved what he came there for – the vote which the camerlingo had already promised to a dozen or more French and Italian prelates – Foulques de Marzin hurriedly kissed the hand that was being held out to him.
Rid of the loathsome schemer at last, Benedetti was able to engage in one of his silent monologues. These were infinitely precious to him. In whom had he confided for so long if not the son of God?
What did you imagine? That the blood that flowed from Your hands and feet would save the world? It was a beautiful dream. But nobody is able to save the world. All we are able to do is to postpone its destruction. There are so few righteous people in Your kingdom, Sublime Lamb of God. Your flock is reduced to a tribe of individuals who are being killed, who are suffering because others prefer to revel in sin, which they maximise and which makes them rich and happy. Sin can be so enjoyable, so easy, while virtue is harsh and arid. Whom can it tempt? What is that You say? That my hidden enemies are also part of Your little tribe? You are right. And yet You know that I am too, and that I would die a thousand deaths for my love of You. However, I do not entertain the foolish hope of changing men. The day men stop fearing the consequences of their actions, nothing will stop them. Their madness, their barbarism will become law. The weak will have their throats cut or be turned into slaves. Only the cruel and bloodthirsty will remain. The future will become a terrible nightmare if we let them have their way. I aim to keep their fear alive. I aim to strengthen the leash that restrains them. I will be hated. What of it? My life is pure torment since Benoît’s murder. Do You know what I sometimes think? That this world is in fact hell. That there is no other.
Honorius Benedetti despised them all, or nearly all. They disgusted him. Why had he loved Benoît so, despite the deceased Pope being his most stubborn adversary? Why did he feel like such an outsider, so different from his innumerable allies – willing or not? Was it his punishment only to feel akin to, like a fellow soul of those whom he must crush, eliminate?
The arrival of an usher interrupted his train of thoughts.
‘Show him in at once.’
The diminutive young man bowed before him. And yet nothing in his demeanour suggested servility.
‘Pray,