“True enough. In my position, would you suspect yourself?”
“I would certainly suspect anyone whose activities could not be fully accounted for.”
“My sentiments precisely. And you were never curious as to the contents of the packet you were risking your life to transport?”
“I was always curious. Do you wish to show them to me now?”
“I’m afraid not. You’re an odd fellow, Faverges. You risk your life to help us, but yet you seem to lack allegiance to anything.”
Amaury began to deny the accusation, then stopped. “Perhaps I’m seeking something to have an allegiance to,” he said instead.
“Certainly true. More so than you think.”
“And you have some deeper insight?”
“Yes, I do. You’re a doubter.”
“A doubter? What do I doubt?”
“Everything.”
“I do not doubt God.”
“Not His existence, perhaps, but certainly you doubt His nature, or at least what you have been told of His nature by the doctors at Montaigu, or even the fanatics of Lutheranism.”
“Are you not a fanatic of Lutheranism?”
“That is a determination you must make for yourself.”
I will, Amaury thought. Aloud, he offered, “But is not doubting the only path to enlightenment?”
“It is one path, certainly,” Castell’buono admitted, “but tortured. For you, my dear Faverges, I suspect life is a continual search for meaning. After all, how can a doubter ever be sure of anything? I am fascinated by doubters. I, myself, have few doubts. Many questions, perhaps, but few doubts.”
“Questions. Doubts.” Amaury gave a backhand wave. “There is no difference. This is rhetoric without substance.”
“Oh, no,” Castell’buono said with a single shake of his head. “There is a very great difference. Those who question—like me—seek solutions. And as such—in wanting to find truth—we can then recognize it when we see it. Doubters—like you—can never find truth, because . . . ”
“We doubt its existence.”
“Precisely. As a questioner, I have found a set of beliefs in which I find complete comfort, to which I can pledge both my life and my soul. Have you ever found such comfort?”
“And if you are not a fanatic of Lutheranism, what is it that you believe in so strongly?” Amaury asked, rather than admit to Castell’buono that he was correct.
“God, of course. But also nature. Science. What greater evidence of Gods glory exists than the wonders of the world around us? What makes wheat grow? How do currents appear in the sea? How do the stars remain in the heavens? Misguided zealots would have us believe that the answers are found in some agonized construction of Scripture. I do not. I believe that they are mysteries that God created for Man to solve.”
Amaury might have used those precise words to Giles. “And why does God take such pains?” he asked.
“To give life meaning, of course! To give Man a reason to exist other than simply to spend his years in worship. Performing ridiculous rituals that mean nothing. Superstition. My word, Faverges, is that the sort of God you believe in?”
Of course he didn’t, but Amaury was not about to cede the Italian the advantage.
“You seem to know everything, Monsieur Castell’buono. Then I suppose you know why Giles Fabrizy and Henri Routbourg were killed.”
“As a matter of fact, I do. Precisely why.”
“But you will not tell me.”
“Not quite yet.”
“Would it have anything to do with why you didn’t show up for your meeting with Monsieur Calvin?”
Castell’buono allowed a slow smile to cross his face. “Very good, Faverges. You show depth. I’m relieved not to be wasting my time with you. But to answer your question . . . no. My absence in no way caused or hastened Henri’s death. Although if I had known he was in such peril, I would certainly have attempted to save him.”
“Calvin said that you would destroy Christianity altogether.”
“Yes. I’m sure he did.”
Should he take the risk? Why not? “By denying Genesis.”
“How silly,” Castell’buono replied with a dismissive wave. “Genesis is the word of God. No believer in Christ would do such a thing.”
“How then?”
“You would have to ask Calvin that.”
“You speak of Routbourg with affection and Calvin with derision. I thought the two were allies.”
“A fair conclusion, but totally incorrect.”
“Is it not possible, then, that Calvin’s allies were responsible for Routbourg’s death and not the Inquisition?”
“Another fair conclusion, but, no, it is not possible.”
“So where you do stand in all of this? What is your role here?”
“I am . . . a sort of adviser. The queen believes that Lutherans seek merely to worship freely within Catholic France. I am here to help bring that about.”
“A noble ambition.”
“But hopelessly naïve. What the queen cannot comprehend is that France will never tolerate two religions. One will flourish and the other, inevitably, will be stamped out. If we are on the losing side, we can expect only blood and flames. France will continue Catholic until the king finds some advantage in divorcing himself from the pope. The queen herself will never disavow Catholicism. It thus becomes a matter of endurance. If we can maintain our position, no matter how tenuously, as the tide shifts across Europe, François might one day conclude it suits his purposes to turn France Lutheran. If not . . . ” Castell’buono shrugged.
“Why are you so open and honest with me, Monsieur Castell’buono? You have all but announced that you don’t trust me.”
“I don’t. But one has to take risks to attain rewards.”
“How do you know I won’t simply report every thing you’ve told me to Queen Marguerite? I expect she would be none too pleased at your ideas.”
“She would not. That’s true. I tell you because I think you’re an intelligent man and would be a valuable ally. I tell you because you believed everything I said, even if you are loath to admit it. I tell you because it will change you from doubter to questioner and be your salvation.”
“Assuming I am not a spy.”
Castell’buono laughed. “A spy? You? For whom? The king? Calvin? The Inquisition? You would be a terrible choice.”
Despite himself, Amaury felt distinctly insulted. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you are a doubter. Haven’t you been listening? Doubters can never be trusted to maintain loyalty. They are too prone to rejecting one philosophy and moving to another.”
“I might have done it for money.”
The Italian shrugged. “Wouldn’t matter. If you lost your belief in whomever employed you, you would ultimately betray them rather than those whom you had come to embrace.”
“Thank you,” Amaury muttered. “Its nice to know that I should avoid spying as a profession.”
“Don’t worry. It’s not much of a profession anyway.” Castell’buono moved for the door. “It’s getting late, Faverges. I have to dress for dinner. We must speak again later.”
“Yes. We must. By the way, is Philippe my servant while I’m here? Or yours?”
“He is at your service, if you need him.”
Amaury nodded. “He seems rather serious as compared to . . . ”
“Me? Yes, I suppose he is. But do not judge Philippe too harshly. He was among the Franciscan order for fifteen years. It has left its mark.”
“A Franciscan, you say?”
“Do you find something odd in that?”
“No. Not odd at all.”
“After all, you were at Montaigu, as was Fabrizy. Didn’t Montaigu leave a mark on you?”
True enough, thought Amaury after the Italian had departed. But neither of us had been seen by Veuve Chinot in an alley wearing a Franciscan cloak, standing over a dead body, holding a bloody knife.
XXI<
br />
WHEN HE RETURNED to the queen’s wing of the palace, Amaury asked the maître d’hôtel if he could be seated near Vivienne at dinner. The man expressed his regrets but said that the seating could not be altered. When Amaury entered, he discovered that Vivienne had been placed at the far end of the right table, next to Castell’buono. The Italian nodded perfunctorily; Vivienne smiled brightly. She had slipped into the appropriate demeanor with remarkable facility. Amaury realized that, had he not known her origins, he would never have suspected she was anything but a well-born lady at court.
He was escorted to the main table and placed to the left of Queen Marguerite. On the other side of the queen, next to Gérard Roussel, was Hélène. She didn’t look up when he entered, although she could not have helped seeing him. Amaury took his seat between a dowager and a plain, empty-headed, marriageable maid from Aragon.
The meal was sumptuous, particularly for people who had eaten only hours before. After days of bread and cheese, Amaury found himself ravenous. The food—roasted lamb, trout from the river, winter vegetables, cheese—was superb. The drinking quotient varied widely. Rabelais, seated at the far end of the queen’s table, drank copiously, while Marguerite and her intimates merely sipped.
Conversation was constant and lively, creating a steady hum that drowned out all but the talk in one’s immediate vicinity. The women on either side of him chattered incessantly, but Amaury paid almost no attention. His focus was on Castell’buono, oozing bonhomie to Vivienne. The Italian gesticulated, laughed, and made a variety of faces, all while apparently relating one diverting tale after another. Vivienne listened appreciatively, smiling and giggling. At one point, Amaury and the Italian made eye contact and his mask, just for an instant, fell away.
Placed as he was, Amaury could not see Hélène until the dinner was finished and the guests stood to leave. She faced him for a second, her face blank, and then turned to depart with Roussel.
As the dinner guests milled about, Amaury walked to where Castell’buono and Vivienne were standing. The Italian seemed to be making apologies for leaving. When he saw Amaury, he swept out an arm.
“Ah, Vivienne my dear, here is Faverges. Just in time. I’m certain he would be thrilled for your company.”
“You’re going?” Amaury asked.
“Alas. I have duties to attend to. But I will see you both in the morning. We hold our services on a hillside outside the palace. Very inviting. Roussel will preach tomorrow. Why don’t we meet there?”
Then, barely waiting for acquiescence, the Italian hurried out.
Amaury turned quickly to Vivienne. “I’m sorry, but I must go as well.”
Amaury peered into the hall just in time to see Castell’buono turn a corner. He followed quickly. If the Italian stopped to check if anyone was behind him, the game was up. A big risk to take, considering Castell’buono’s destination might be as nondescript as his own bedroom. But this business demanded good instincts, and Amaury’s told him that, from the haste with which the Italian left the room, a bit of surveillance might pay dividends.
When Amaury reached the end of the hall and peeked cautiously around the corner, Castell’buono was no longer in sight. Both a door and a staircase were at the end of the corridor. Amaury hurried to the end. He could hear no footsteps, so he bet on the door. He carefully pushed it open, checked to see if anyone was immediately outside, then stepped into the courtyard. Torches placed along the walls lit the yard, but the doorway was in shadow. Amaury looked about and finally saw a short, round figure moving toward the chapel. He waited a moment, pressed up against a wall, obscured by darkness. Castell’buono suddenly whirled to look behind him, then, satisfied he was alone, entered the chapel through a side door. Amaury scurried after him.
He could not enter through the same door as the Italian. For all he knew, his man was just inside. Instead he chose a stairway that led upstairs to the gallery. He blessed his Montaigu experience; he had learned to open a door soundlessly. He slipped inside the chapel and immediately heard the murmur of voices. He padded through the gallery until he was just above the sound. Listening carefully, Amaury could just barely hear Castell’buono talking softly beneath him.
“Well, Philippe, what do you think?”
“He seems genuine enough, I suppose. I wouldn’t trust him, though.”
Castell’buono chuckled softly. “You don’t trust anyone, Philippe. But if we trust no one, our numbers cannot grow. We need clever, talented people. You do think he’s clever, don’t you?”
“I suppose.”
“Cleverness is a sword that cuts both ways, of course. Perhaps he was so clever as to maintain his Catholicism. So clever as to affect disinterest. He is no fool, this Faverges, and whether for personal reasons or something more, he does not tell all that he thinks.”
“You don’t think he’s Ory’s man?”
“Anything is possible, Philippe, but Ory has never before chosen someone so unsuitable.”
“Unsuitable? He seems perfectly suitable to me.”
“That’s because you want everything to be the way it seems to be.”
“What of the woman he arrived with?”
“A whore from Paris. Henri told me he would use her. She knows nothing.”
“Whore or saint, Ory will employ anyone to destroy us.”
“She is evidently quite resourceful. She has feelings for Faverges, but might also have seen some evidence of whether or not he can be trusted. As such, she merits some cultivating.”
“We should not take chances with either of them.”
“What you propose is hardly in God’s path, Philippe.”
“We cannot afford to be squeamish. We will roast for it.”
“Perhaps, Philippe. But we do not murder the innocent no matter what our suspicions. We leave that for our enemies.”
Philippe grunted.
“I confess I like him,” Castell’buono continued. “This Faverges. He was quite effective in not giving away that he knew that the correspondence he was carrying was blank.”
“But less effective in hiding that he had seen it.”
“One twist. On the whole, though, he did rather well with the knot.” “While violating his word not to look at what was inside.”
“Oh, Philippe, I would have been more concerned had he not tried to look.”
“What is the point of testing someone if you ignore when they fail?”
“I didn’t test him. That was Hoess. He is so enamored of intrigue. I prefer to judge the man.”
“So you will risk giving him the real papers for the return trip? On your judgment of the man alone? If he betrays us, or even simply fails, and we do not publish what we have, all our efforts will have been for nothing. Everything I have done . . . ”
“I haven’t decided yet whether to trust him. But you must trust me, Philippe. I would never imperil our cause . . . your sacrifices. But this Faverges is worth a bit of time. He would be a valuable ally. His father is the Duke of Savoy. And he can be an ally. He believes as we do, Philippe. I’m certain of it. I think we should wait and observe the Savoyard and see what he does.”
“I’m against it.”
“We can always take action if need be. Where is he going to go?”
“He might not wait for you to decide if he is trustworthy. He might slip away to Paris on his own and betray us all.”
“Then you will leave as well, Philippe. Nothing could be simpler. One more thing. Are you certain no one observed you in the alley?”
“Quite certain. Why do you ask?”
“Because Faverges reacted oddly when I mentioned that you had been a Franciscan. I wonder—”
“What?”
“They were both at Montaigu. They might have known each other. Perhaps he is not here for the manuscript at all. Perhaps he is only here for the boy, Giles. For you, Philippe. That would certainly change things.”
“In either case . . . ”
“No. Not yet. But be ready, my fri
end.”
His life, the old man realized, had been a race. Now the race was nearing the end, although just how much farther the course ran, he could not be sure. What did seem more and more evident, however, was that, whatever time was left to him, he would not reach the finish.
Despite perseverance bordering on obsession, the problem, the paradox that had confounded him for over a decade, remained insoluble. Or, at least, insoluble to him. Another natural philosopher would certainly follow after the old man was dead and see the solution. It would lively turn out to be quite simple. Basic and obvious. The best the old man could hope to do now was to carry the standard.
But, he thought with a sigh, isnt making a contribution what science is? Not individuals filled with pride or hubris, but rather a steady stream of the curious and the dogged, each edging human knowledge ahead, confident— and gratified—that another would always arise to take his place in the vanguard.
How can an object that is moving forward at the same time move backward? If he could have solved that problem, his model would have been elegant and complete. Ptolemy had resorted to the contrivance of epicycles. The Egyptian called the creation his Celestial Pearl. String of pearls was more lie it. The old man had been determined to discard that machination, but ultimately could not. He must, then, be content with his basic findings and leave epicycles for another to eliminate.
Of course, the central thesis—he almost chucked at the pun—was the most vital. His time had hardly been wasted. And, imperfection or no, there could be no doubt that his construction was correct.
And he rejected the notion that its dissemination would overturn Church dogma. Nothing in Scripture ran counter to his findings. The current interpretation was not Divine Word but a theory originally postulated by Aristotle. A brilliant mind, surely, but hardly a Christian one. True, the Blessed Thomas Aquinas had adapted Aristotle to Christianity in order to reconcile science with Scripture. But would the Church really suffer if it had to make accommodations to new knowledge? God’s glory remained. And the old man could also not comprehend why Man would lose his uniqueness if Aristotelian—and Ptolemaic—interpretation was supplanted. Ptolemy, after all, was another pagan.
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