How he had missed her, how he had tired of being without her. Life lost its meaning, its beauty, its interest. How could he have come to depend so much on this woman whose existence he had been unaware of up until a few months ago? Did it matter? No.
‘I trust I’m not boring you, Monsieur? Forgive me, I get carried away sometimes. It is so rare for me to meet people with whom I can hold a meaningful conversation. No doubt I am trying your patience.’
He was taken off guard, embarrassed.
‘Not at all, Madame. On the contrary you delight me. And yet …’
‘And yet?’ she insisted.
‘This loathing of the fair sex is so widespread that it must conceal something else.’
‘What?’
‘Fear, of course.’
‘Fear? Who are we to instil fear?’
‘You are different. Indispensable. And men always wish to control what is indispensable to them so that they might never suffer need. Moreover … but these are not appropriate words for a lady’s ears.’
‘You forget that I’ve been married and given birth.’
At that precise moment, Artus’s vague fear of taking another step, of exposing himself, dissolved. He studied her at length with his big dark eyes, so inscrutable, so serious that they unsettled her, threw her off balance.
‘Forgive me if I dare to make a boorish observation.’
She was burning with impatience and with curiosity too, though she would never admit it:
‘I can at least listen to you dispassionately.’
‘Only briefly.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You said that you’d been married, and I replied: “only briefly”.’
Suddenly plunged into the dizzying world of innuendo, she felt a lump in her throat. Unable to come up with a worthy riposte, she quipped, feebly:
‘Can one be more or less married?’
‘Do you doubt it, Madame?’
She had not counted on their polite banter taking such a dangerous turn. She stood up gracefully and announced:
‘Forgive me, but I must go and see how Adeline is getting on in the kitchens if we wish to dine soon.’
‘Ah … meals, bed or baths, a woman’s usual parry.’
‘I don’t under—’
‘You understand only too well,’ he cut her short. ‘I’ll wager Adeline can manage her pots and pans perfectly well without any help from you. Please sit down.’
Agnès reluctantly did as he asked. Her initial amusement had given way to a feeling of panic. In reality she was ignorant of the world of courtly love and seduction. Contrary to what she had wished to believe, being a woman was no guarantee of finding her bearings in these matters. After all, what was she but a noblewoman and a peasant farmer? He knew that world. He must have been at court, and had doubtless known many courtesans whose vocation it was to captivate, to please and above all to endure.
‘Am I embarrassing you, Madame? It would grieve me.’ She shook her head, forcing a smile. He went on:
‘You must acknowledge … Be so good as to acknowledge that this conversation which is intent upon avoiding the heart of the matter has gone too far and deserves at least a conclusion.’
‘We were discussing poetry …’
‘Come, Madame! We were discussing true love – although, granted, the word was never mentioned …’
She tried hard to stifle the emotion that was making her gasp for breath, fearing, longing to hear what he would say next.
‘… I cannot summon the words, those words. I have used them rarely and then only a very long time ago. I feel like a simpleton before you. I am … nearly old enough to be your father …’
She raised her hand and shook her head once again. He pre-empted her:
‘Do not underestimate the importance of such differences. On the other hand, I have an excellent reputation, a noble title and a large fortune. I am Comte d’Authon and Lord of Masle, Béthonvilliers, Luigny, Thiron, Bonnetable and Larnay …’
‘Are you drawing up a contract, Monsieur?’ she interrupted him.
‘If I’m not mistaken, your own marriage was a contract.’
She stood up abruptly and said in a stinging voice:
‘Is this the boorish remark you warned me about? For your information, I had no other choice.’
‘Please forgive my rudeness. And do you have a choice now?’
‘Indeed I do.’ She studied him, her lips pursed, and added: ‘Very well! Since we are engaged in drafting clauses, I wouldn’t wish to be outdone. What is it you are trying to tell me by listing the advantages of your social position? Did you think that I was unaware of them? Could I have forgotten that you are my overlord, and that Authon, albeit small, is one of the richest counties in France? What more can you add? Your friendship with the King? Your servants? Your tableware, your stables? Your hunting grounds? Your furniture and property?’
Taken aback, he stammered: ‘What am I to say …’
‘Tell me the truth, now. The truth that is in your heart!’
‘The truth …? What an abyss!’
She stamped her foot and cried out:
‘For pity’s sake, Monsieur! It is too late to back down now, you said so yourself. Is this not the real reason you came to Souarcy?’
‘The truth … The … passion I feel for you has long since exceeded the protection an overlord owes his vassal.’ He raised his eyes to heaven and declared: ‘God’s wounds … I am not gifted with eloquence, Madame. A pox on words! Women are so fond of words!’30
‘Three words, Monsieur. That is all. Three simple words and I will give in – I, whom the Inquisition could not force to surrender. Three simple words.’
‘And what if … what if you yourself are incapable of uttering them! What if … they stick in your throat because you do not mean them? Words, words and more words! Tell one of your farm hands to saddle my horse at once! I am expected at Rémalard. Do not see me out. I wish to choke on the cold air, alone.’
The sound of Ogier’s thundering hooves echoed in the courtyard before disappearing, muffled by the snow. Agnès stood still, unsure if she was about to break down and cry, or burst into hysterical laughter. She bent over, gasping, waiting for the tears to come.
The three words had hung in the air throughout his visit. Had she been able, she would have said them for him, but it was not the custom for a woman to do so.
Her attack of nerves subsided as quickly as it had come. What an unbelievable adventure – to be in love. It had taken her a while to define this dryness in her throat, this knot in her stomach whenever he was near, this erratic breathing, this delicious apprehension. How blind she’d been. And yet, never having experienced such overpowering emotion before, how could she be blamed for not having recognised it?
What an extraordinary and marvellous thing.
He would say those words. He must.
Arnaud de Viancourt, Grand-Commander of the order of the Hospitallers and prior of the citadel at Limassol, let out a sigh. He who found the Cypriot heat so insufferable