Amaury tried to shake out the haze and decide what to do. Confronting two men was out of the question. His dagger would be of little use. If left alone, they would likely simply make off with some of the goods that could be easily carried. They would wish to avoid a confrontation as much as he. If they wanted an ironmonger’s goods, they could have them.
Then he remembered. The sack! He had left it in the wagon. No matter that the pages were blank. He was not supposed to know that. He must defend them as if they held the secrets of the ages. He cursed his stupidity as he pushed himself to a sitting position.
“The letters are in the wagon,” he whispered. “I must try to save them.”
“I’m going, too,” Vivienne whispered in return.
Amaury began to protest, but, from her tone, he knew it would be fruitless. Besides, there was no time. He moved silently to the ladder and descended to the floor. Seconds later, Vivienne was next to him. The horse remained still. He could hear definite sounds of scraping and voices outside. Two men? Yes, two.
Weapons? What could they use? The two men might be thrown off guard if he and Vivienne burst out of the barn holding . . . what?
Pitchforks. There was hay, so there must be pitchforks. When they had arrived, he had seen tools along a side wall. Morning must have been near at hand, because sufficient light penetrated the shed from a small, high window on the road side to allow Amaury to make his way about. He soon located four pitchforks, two long-handled, two short. He grabbed the former and handed one to Vivienne. He whispered that, on his sign, they should throw the doors open as quickly and loudly as they could, then rush out and confront the robbers before they could react.
They padded to the front of the barn, Amaury at the left door, closest to the wagon side, and Vivienne at the right. She was looking across, waiting for his signal, ready, even eager, to begin.
Amaury listened. The robbers outside were still at their work. He heard a short, muffled chuckle. He threw open his door, Vivienne following. In an instant they had rushed to the side of the barn, their weapons leveled. “Be gone!” Amaury yelled.
The men jumped back from the wagon. Both were small and rodentlike. Neither was young. The iron goods were scattered at their feet, but Amaury could not see the sack. Instead of running, however, each pulled a long club. But they did not move forward.
The four faced off. The man on the right tried to look menacing. “You two just leave this to us, and you can go on your way,” he said with an exaggerated sneer. “We don’t want to hurt nobody, do we, Jacques?”
Jacques did not speak, but raised his club higher. “G’wan,” the first man said. “Or we’ll kill you sure.”
Instead of retreating, Amaury took a step forward, jabbing with his pitchfork. “I think you’re wrong about who is going to die, my friend.”
Vivienne advanced as well, brandishing her pitchfork at Jacques. “You two picked the wrong wagon. We’re used to the likes of you.” Her voice was a growl, menacing, without a hint of fear. “If you don’t turn and leave, we’ll skewer you. We done it to better.”
The first man glanced to Jacques, trying to urge his partner forward, but Jacques was staring at Vivienne’s weapon and did not budge. Amaury moved up another step. “You heard her. Stay here one more minute and you’ll each have two holes to show for it.”
The men at first remained rooted in their tracks, but disinclination to advance was the same as retreat. Vivienne made another jab. Jacques took one step back. That was all the first man needed. Soon they were both drawing away. “All right then,” said the first man. “No harm done. We didn’t take nothing.” Within minutes the robbers had disappeared into the early-morning gloom.
When the men had gone, Amaury stepped forward to see the inside the cart. The sack was still undisturbed under the seat. Amaury placed the pointed end of the pitchfork into the ground and stood with his hand on the top of the shaft until he was sure they weren’t coming back. When he looked to Vivienne, she had also placed the pitchfork in the ground. Her hand was high up on the handle and she wore a look of triumph. Then she laughed.
“Well, those two won’t be bragging to their friends in the tavern about this night, I’ll tell you.”
“No,” Amaury replied. “I suppose not.”
“Oh, Amaury. Such an adventure. What fun!”
“Fun?” But her laughter was infectious. “Well, perhaps in the way it turned out.”
Suddenly she rushed to him and grabbed him about the waist. He hugged her in return. At first the feeling was simply shared relief, but soon Amaury became aware of the press of Vivienne’s breasts against him. He must have betrayed the change, because Vivienne stiffened and pushed herself away.
“It will be dawn soon,” she said, and began returning the items on the ground to the wagon.
Three days later, they reached Nérac.
XVIII
NÉRAC. A hotbed of lies, deceit, and intrigue, if Liebfreund and Ory were to be believed. What would such a place be like? A dark, shadowy warren with conspirators behind every post? Lutherans and Catholics each plotting the other’s destruction? Where one must always keep weapons at the ready to ward off assassins?
The truth, as truth often is, could not have been more different than expectation.
Nérac itself was a small, bright city situated on the east bank of the river Baïse. Across the narrow waterway lay the grand palace of Queen Marguerite and her husband, Henri d’Albret. The walls were limestone, shining almost white. The roof was of terra-cotta tiles, Mediterranean, rather than the gray slate of the north. The outside barricade was low, only two stories high, more suited to discouraging unwanted guests than to repelling invaders. Cylindrical towers, which appeared to have been a recent addition, occupied each corner.
Amaury pulled the wagon up to the front gate, a large wooden door rather than a portcullis. A sergeant at arms stepped from the barred guardhouse and asked them their business. Amaury, as he had been instructed, replied that he had come from Paris to hear the sermon on the hillside. The sergeant returned inside, then, some minutes later, the door was unlocked and swung open. The sergeant was waiting inside. He signaled to a groom to lead the horse, and Amaury and Vivienne were directed to the left, toward the stables.
The center court was not as expansive as the Louvre, perhaps, but was similar in size and scale to his father’s palace in Savoy. Marguerite’s husband, Henri d’Albret, was, after all, an independent monarch, king of Navarre, although in practice the Duke of Savoy wielded a good deal more power than King Henri.
As the horse ambled across the courtyard, however, similarity to Savoy ceased. Any number of gaily dressed young men, and even a few unescorted women, walked about. Others sat in open-air chairs. A woman sat playing a lute. Animated conversation abounded, not at all conspiratorial. Some of the courtiers chose to remain alone, either taking the air or reading, while others listened to the music. The palace far more resembled a sanctuary than a den of vipers.
When Amaury and Vivienne arrived at the stables, a jolly-looking man, florid-faced and round, wearing a brilliant red jerkin and blue plumed hat, bade them dismount. He took the reins from Amaury and gave them to a waiting groom.
“Welcome to Nérac,” he said in accented French. “I’m Castell’buono. I serve Queen Marguerite.”
“An Italian?” Amaury asked before he could stop himself.
The man made to frown. “You are shocked? Cannot an Italian serve a Navarrese queen? I assure you, I hold no prejudice.”
“Nor, obviously, does she,” Amaury replied with a small bow. The Italian had failed to come to Paris, Routbourg had told Calvin. He remained in the south. Amaury introduced himself and Vivienne, whom he called Mademoiselle d’Arras. He had never, he realized, learned her proper surname. Vivienne gave no sign that the appellation was incorrect.
Castell’buono’s smile vanished for just an instant. “Routbourg could not come?”
“Routbourg is dead.”
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p; “An accident? He fell into the Seine, perhaps?”
“His throat was cut.”
Castell’buono heaved a sigh but exhibited no other sign of surprise. “Those responsible were arrested?”
“No. And Monsieur Hoess . . . you know him?” Castell’buono nodded. “Monsieur Hoess assumes they will not be.”
“I understand,” the Italian said. “And you, Monsieur Faverges, volunteered to take his place? A brave thing to do. We are in your debt.” He gestured toward Vivienne. “I’m sure the opportunity to spend a week with such a beautiful creature played no small part in your decision.” He smiled at her, somewhere between broad and lascivious. “It certainly would have for me.”
“I was fortunate in my companion,” Amaury replied simply.
“But Faverges . . . Faverges,” the Italian went on, tapping a finger to his lips. “I do not believe I have heard your name before. You are new to the brethren?”
“Quite new. And not, at least as yet, of the brethren at all.” Amaury recounted briefly his banishment from Montaigu, his encounter with Broussard in Paris, and his attendance at the meeting in La Croix Faubin. Once again, he noted that he had been with Routbourg until minutes before his death.
“In that case, Monsieur Faverges, our debt to you is that much greater. A risk borne not of conviction, but simply because of one’s sense of right and wrong . . . ”
“Right and wrong is conviction enough, is it not?”
“Indeed.” Castell’buono put his hand to his cheek, as if to recognize a faux pas of etiquette. “But you must be fatigued after your journey. Your quarters will be in the guest wing. Queen Marguerite is expecting you in one hour. She has many questions about Paris.” He turned his attention to Vivienne, removing his hat with a flourish and bowing deeply. “And you, mademoiselle . . . ” Castell’buono dropped a sensuous flourish into his voice. “Those who undertake these arduous journeys in the name of tolerance and freedom are highly valued, no matter what their station. You will have a room with the queens ladies in the royal apartments. I shall escort you myself.”
Vivienne at first looked stunned, and then a deep blush began at her chest and rushed up her neck to her face. The royal apartments. For her. Amaury realized that she was unable to speak.
“Merci mille fois, Monsieur Castell’buono,” he said, trying unsuccessfully to match the Italian’s unction. “Mademoiselle and I are most grateful.”
Castell’buono nodded but kept his eyes on Vivienne. “You will find suitable clothing in your rooms,” he said. “Any difficulty, or if the accommodations are not to your taste, mademoiselle, please report to me. Directly.” He favored Vivienne with another smile. “I would be honored to see to any situation personally.”
Amaury moved between the Italian and Vivienne. “You are very kind, monsieur. Now, perhaps we can be taken to our rooms? We are quite fatigued.”
“Of course,” crooned Castell’buono. He swept his hat broadly through the air. “Please follow me.”
Amaury asked him to wait a moment. He walked to the front of the wagon and placed his hand on the horse’s snout. The beast raised his head against Amaury’s palm.
“Well, we have certainly gotten to be friends,” Amaury said softly, stroking along the animal’s nose. “I have learned from you and will always remember our time together. I expect our paths will not cross again, so I wanted to wish you long life.”
Amaury removed his hand and turned to leave, but the horse nudged him with its nose. Amaury turned back for a second, smiled, and then left the stables. As he walked across the courtyard with Vivienne, Castell’buono met another man, somber and emaciated, with piercing eyes and hair cut to the skull. The Italian introduced him as Philippe and said he had been assigned to show Amaury to his rooms and see to his needs. Castell’buono, as promised, was to escort Vivienne to the queen’s apartments. Before he left with her, however, he took Amaury aside and spoke to him so that the other two could not hear.
“What were you told of your mission?”
“Nothing beyond delivery of the correspondence.”
“The correspondence, of course. Nothing of the return?”
“No. Are there instructions for the return?”
“There might be. In the meantime, when you have your audience with Queen Marguerite, respond to her questions, but relate nothing of the correspondence you carry, nor any details of our activities in Paris.” CastelPbuono smiled and shrugged. “The queen, glorious as she may be, is still a Catholic, after all . . . as are you.”
“Of course.”
“Where is the correspondence, by the way?”
Amaury patted his sack, which he had removed from the wagon. “Do you wish it now?”
“No. Leave it on the shelf of the armoire in your room when you go to meet Queen Marguerite. It will be well cared for. You and I will speak later. I also have many questions about the goings-on in Paris, although they will be different from the queen’s.”
CastelPbuono then returned to Vivienne. Amaury watched them walk across the courtyard, the Italian gesturing theatrically as he spoke.
After Vivienne and Castell’buono disappeared around the corner, the servant Philippe led Amaury to the north wing and up a set of stairs to the second floor. Philippe made no pretense of pleasantries, not even turning to see if Amaury was behind him. He was like a wraith, his sandals making no sound as he walked. Veuve Chinot had described such a man in the alley, standing over Giles, but Philippe was not the only thin man in France with cropped hair. Still, not someone to turn his back on.
The floors in the corridors were tile, with mosaic inlays depicting scenes of farming and rural life. The walls were scrubbed and the candle sconces were of blown glass. Philippe opened a door halfway down the corridor, but did not move to enter.
“Queen Marguerite is of the modern fashion,” he noted, “and does not favor grime or foul odors. She herself bathes as often as twice per week.” The man spoke in a dull monotone, emotionless, as if neither the content of his speech nor the identity of his correspondent was of consequence.
Amaury reluctantly agreed to a bath, although rinsing of the hands and face would have done just as well. He stepped inside and closed the door, leaving Philippe to wait. The room was wide and open, with a large bed. The armoire Castell’buono had mentioned was filled with clothing. A washbasin and pitcher lay on a wide table next to a line of eaus de toilette. A small cup to rinse one’s mouth sat there as well. A chamber pot was parked discreetly at the foot of the bed. Amaury placed the packet of correspondence on the shelf of the armoire, as he had been instructed, whispering a prayer that he had retied the knot correctly.
When he stepped back outside, Philippe informed him that a room at the end of the hall had been set aside for bathing. “I took the liberty of warming the water,” he intoned. “Her Majesty always insists on warm water. She has said that it benefits the health as well as providing comfort.” Amaury was instructed to leave his ironmonger’s clothes in the bathing room to be taken away and given to the poor.
The chamber they entered was at the far end of the corridor with a window that looked out over the hills. A large copper tub had been placed in the center of a blue-tiled floor. A cistern heated by a low flame was situated against the far wall. Amaury removed his clothes and left them in a pile by the door. Then, feeling rather foolish in his nakedness, he climbed into the tub. Philippe transferred large pails of water from the cistern, pausing when the tub was about one quarter full to add some perfumed crystals. He performed these activities with studied dispassion.
Amaury was relieved when the water was high enough to cover his genitalia, although Philippe gave no sign that these activities were anything but the most common of occurrences. They might have been in ancient Rome. Once Amaury relaxed, he slid down a bit and let the warmth soak into him. Philippe continued to add water from the cistern. For just a moment, Amaury had the sensation that Philippe intended to drown him, but the man continued his duties wit
hout hesitation, and Amaury dismissed the thought as ridiculous. The ambience as he settled into the bath was, in fact, intensely soothing. He wondered if, in the royal apartments, Vivienne was, at this moment, lying naked in a tub of her own.
Clearly, he was supposed to wash as well as luxuriate, so, after a bit, Amaury rubbed the soap that Philippe had supplied over his body. He had evidently behaved correctly because, just afterward, Philippe asked if he was ready to dry. When Amaury said that he was, Philippe fetched a large blue velvet robe, which he held open at the side of the tub. Amaury stood, turned his back—although again a feeling of disquiet ran through him—and slipped his arms into the sleeves. He noticed that the water had turned dark as mud. Had he really been covered with that much filth?
Philippe led him back to his room, Amaury leaving wet footprints on the tile in the corridor. Had he been supposed to dry himself in the bathing room? The manners of the palace were completely foreign to him. In Savoy, which considered itself enlightened due to its proximity to Italy, even his father’s mistress had bathed only once per month. Perfume did the rest.
Philippe remained outside the room, leaving Amaury to dress himself. When Amaury swung the door of the armoire open, the packet of correspondence was gone.
XIX
THE ARMOIRE CONTAINED a large variety of clothing. No crimson velour, of course—that was reserved for nobility—but brocaded doublets with silk sleeves, and many pairs of silk tights and balloon shorts in contrasting colors. Amaury had a difficult time choosing. Each of the garments was substantially more ostentatious than anything he had worn in the past.
Amaury finally chose a deep green doublet punctuated with gold sequins placed in rectangles, gray stockings, deep violet shorts, and a plain black hat and shoes. They were the most understated choices before him. He eschewed a cape, although he nonetheless felt singularly ridiculous when he examined himself in the glass. When he decided that he could put off the moment no longer, he heaved a sigh and opened the door.
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