Many in the Church, like Cardinal Schönburg, saw the situation just that way. Even Pope Leo had expressed tolerance for the idea. But Leo was dead and Schönburg was in a tiny minority. Luther was the reason, of course. The cursed German. After Luther, the matter had taken on new import. Any formulation that bore the slightest potential of causing the faithful to question was now seen as a threat. Pope Clement, not the strongest of men to begin with, was increasingly falling under the influence of the reactionaries.
With matters so tenuous, friends and enemies alie had gotten word to the old man that any attempt to publish his findings as fact would bring a charge of heresy and death by fire. His very name would be anathema in the annals of the Church. He had even been told that he risked assassination if he so much as attempted to publish. So he had waited.
Still, no politics, no delay, and no threats could change the truth.
The Earth circled the sun and not the other way around.
XXII
AMAURY LAY IN BED, propped against the headboard. After midnight. He had given up on sleep and opened the drapes to let in the breeze. Half light from the moon penetrated the room and created spectral shadows on the wall.
How confusing this had all become. He had found Giles’ assassin. The reason he had come. He should denounce Philippe, make him pay for his crime. Or kill the man himself. But that would expose them all. Expose him. End the charade. And whatever secret Philippe and Castell’buono were protecting, he would forfeit his chance of discovering it. It would be left for Ory. But it might well be a secret that he, Amaury, would also want to protect. That Giles had wanted to protect.
He must have begun to fall asleep without realizing, because all at once he was aware of a scratching in the hall. As he gained focus, he realized the scratching was from a key being placed in the lock of his door.
Philippe. There to assassinate him. The Franciscan was taking no chances, no matter what Castell’buono had said.
Amaury slipped out of bed and retrieved his dagger from his clothes. Giles’ face once more flashed in his mind. Philippe would not find an unarmed innocent this time. He walked quietly across the room and stood behind the door.
Slowly, the door began to open. When it had opened halfway, it stopped. Amaury held the knife steady, ready to strike.
A figure slipped quietly into the room. Not Philippe. A woman. Wearing nightclothes. As soon as she was inside, the pale, beautiful figure was unmistakable. She closed the door behind her and padded on tiptoes across the room. She stopped at the empty bed. Amaury dropped the knife to the floor.
“Hélène.”
She spun, wide-eyed as a fawn, glanced down at the dagger at his feet, but didn’t speak. Instead she extended her hand. Amaury moved to her. He stood inches away. She smelled of flowers, of dew, of everything sweet and wondrous. He could hear rhythmic breathing but was not sure if it was his, hers, or theirs both. She reached up and placed her fingertips on his cheek. The touch of an angel. She placed her hands on his shoulders and pushed him down to sit on the bed. She took one step backward. Then, never taking her eyes from his, she reached up and grasped the ties of her nightdress. She held the ties for a moment and then pulled them. The nightdress fell to the floor.
Hélène stepped out of the pile of silk but remained at the side of the bed, letting Amaury look at her. Her body was long and full, but without heaviness. He watched her stomach and breasts move in and out as she breathed. Amaury was too transfixed to budge. The two of them remained there, suspended in time and space for some moments, until Hélène moved to join him on the bed.
They made love for hours, a lifetime of release crammed into a single night. Whenever Amaury tried to speak, to breathe her name, she placed a finger on his lips. Finally, the impending dawn began to lighten the sky. Hélène arose, dressed, then slipped out as silently as she had entered. Amaury stared at the door for some moments after she had departed, as if a spectral presence of the woman remained in the wood.
He would love her until the day he died.
XXIII
AS THE SUN WARMED the fields on a beautiful spring morning, Amaury made his way out of the palace to attend the Lutheran service. He should have invited Vivienne, he knew, but he could not face her.
Amaury reached a shallow hillside where about thirty worshippers were gathered for the service. Roussel stood at the front. Neither the queen nor any of the luminaries from the palace drawing room were among the crowd. It was true, then. Most of the court had remained Catholic. As he scanned the congregation, Amaury spied Vivienne sitting near the front. So she had not waited for him either. Sitting next to her was, once again, Castell’buono. They were speaking, as at the dinner, in a manner quite animated. Amaury remained at the rear, and soon Roussel moved to address the congregation.
The Lutheran service had retained much from the Mass. Roussel recited the same psalms, followed the same liturgy, and offered the same Communion. The differences, however, were significant. Conducting the service in vernacular French created a more vibrant mood. Those among the worshippers who knew no Latin would feel as much a part of the proceedings as those who did. As a result, the congregation was unified, communal, seemed somehow closer to God.
Music was far more important to the Lutherans than Amaury would have expected. The congregation sang many hymns, including one penned by Luther himself, “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.” Amaury found the heavy German intonations somewhat ponderous and repetitive, but was nonetheless impressed listening to a composition by the very man who had founded the new religion.
Roussel, the orator who had filled the courtyard at the Louvre, possessed a power to preach that had in no way been understated. The sermon was powerful and compelling. The topic was Man’s place in the universe. Roussel spoke of Man as being master of the natural world, assigned that role by God, and therefore responsible not simply for his own destiny but for that of all around him. “Man is at the center of God’s plan,” Roussel said, “unique in the universe, and bears the weight as well as the glory of that role.”
When the service ended, the flock, Vivienne among them, moved forward as one to praise the shepherd. Roussel accepted the paeans with a shy smile. At one point, Roussel placed his hand on Vivienne’s shoulder and spoke to her directly. Castell’buono stood next to them, beaming but for once letting someone else speak.
Amaury was trying to decide whether or not to join them when he felt a hand on his own shoulder. He turned to find himself face-to-face with a priest.
“Hello, my son,” the priest said with a slow nod. He was about thirty, lean and fair, with a hawklike brow. His voice rolled gently from within him. “Amaury, is it not? I am Père Louis-Paul. I am confessor to Her Majesty.”
Amaury returned the greeting, uncomfortable with the priest’s conspicuous piety. He felt suddenly as if he was back at Montaigu.
“Did you enjoy the service?” Père Louis-Paul asked, demonstrating no rancor in asking about branded heretics. “The Lutherans have been clever in their choices to render Christianity more egalitarian, have they not? I expect our Church will be forced to make some changes to make services more . . . entertaining. Do you agree?”
“I am not qualified to judge such high ecclesiastical matters,” Amaury replied.
“After nine years at Montaigu? Oh, you are too modest.” The priest shrugged. “Then what of your own reaction? Did you find the service appealing?”
“Appealing? Yes, it certainly was that.”
The priest bowed his head slightly, so as to peer at Amaury from the tops of his eyes. “But you remain within the True Church yourself, do you not, my son?”
“Yes. Of course, Father.”
Père Louis-Paul smiled. Then he switched to Latin. “Pro moment in ullus vices.” “For the moment, in any event.”
“I have no plans to change.”
The priest nodded. “Why don’t you come for Confession, then?”
“I will certainly do so,” Amaury lied
. He had no intention of confessing anything to this nosy priest within the intrigue of Queen Marguerites court.
“Come today,” the priest said softly. “Just after midday meal.”
Amaury looked at Père Louis-Paul more closely and saw that the priest was doing the same to him.
“I am interested to learn what you have discerned in your travels.”
“You are interested?” Amaury asked.
“Yes. As is Magister Ory. He is, in fact, awaiting your communication with great expectation.” The priest paused. “You do not wish to disappoint him, do you?”
“No. I will be pleased to share my observations.”
“Good, then,” said Père Louis-Paul. “I shall see you presently.” The priest smiled, although the gesture did not reach his eyes. “Do not fret, my son. You will find the experience cleansing.”
XXIV
THE SENSE OF PEACE exuded by Queen Marguerite extended to her church. Calm and serene with superb acoustics, the interior bore a faint trace of her scent. Delicate, almost floral. Also in Marguerite’s idiom, the facility served both Catholics and Lutherans, possibly unique for a place of worship in France. Except during services, it was impossible to discern from a glance the liturgy to which any particular supplicant adhered.
The priest was waiting. Père Louis-Paul did not appear either so pious or so kindly as he had in the courtyard. Rather, he had adopted an air of somber impatience.
Each entered their respective doors of the confessional and softly closed them. As Amaury knelt, the curtain pulled open. The outline of Père Louis-Paul was visible through the lattice in the dim light.
Amaury had never before been in a confessional without saying, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” but on this occasion he merely sat and waited for Père Louis-Paul to begin. For some moments, the only sound was the breathing of the two men. Finally, Père Louis-Paul seemed to recognize that no Sacrament of Penance would precede the interrogation.
“Well, my son,” he began in his confessors whisper, “what have you learned?” The sound seemed to float in the tiny enclosed chamber.
“Not very much, I’m afraid,” Amaury whispered in return, in Latin. “As Magister Ory suspected, there does seem to be a substratum of the Lutherans who are more radical than their brethren. And there does seem to be talk of some grand conspiracy to disprove Genesis, although I continue to doubt if the effort is serious.”
“This is no more than we knew already. Surely you learned something more. The Italian, for example. Castell’buono. Is he involved?”
“Certainly,” Amaury replied. “But this can hardly be a revelation to you.”
“And the girl? The one you traveled with. Has she deduced your true affiliation?”
“No.”
The priest was silent for some moments. He surely suspected Amaury was lying to him but was in no position to launch a specific accusation. “Well, my son,” he whispered finally, “although you seem to have little to tell us, we have something to tell you. Magister Ory has an assignment that he wishes you to carry out. It is the reason you were brought here. You will, you see, have the opportunity to demonstrate your worth after all.”
“I am grateful,” Amaury said.
“In Castell’buono’s rooms are documents. Very explicit documents, I’m told. They come from a man living in the east and give the details of the Lutheran conspiracy. You are to read them—read them with great care—and report to me on their contents.”
“Excuse me, Father,” Amaury replied. “How am I to read documents that Castell’buono has secreted in his rooms? Am I to simply ask him to show me material that could have him burnt at the stake? I must also ask, why me specifically? With your position, you would seem more apt to access this information than I.”
“You are to read them because they are technical—mathematical. They concern some aspect of natural philosophy that the Lutherans believe will throw into doubt the Church’s interpretation of Genesis 1:1. You were chosen for this assignment because Magister Ory believes you to have a brilliant mind for such things.”
“Magister Ory flatters me.”
“Hardly. He also imparted that your faith and commitment are both questionable. You are under great scrutiny, Faverges. I suggest you do not take this admonition lightly.”
“I take nothing from Magister Ory lightly.”
“Very wise. It has been observed that you do not seem to be proceeding with the energy Magister Ory expected of you.”
“I don’t see how I could have exhibited more energy,” Arnaury protested. “I got myself assigned to come here and have since insinuated myself into Castell’buono’s circle. That he has yet to give me his unvarnished trust after one day is not surprising.”
“A fine argument for a disputation, Faverges,” the priest replied. “And perhaps even valid. Still, your traveling companion has managed to forge a more intimate relationship with Castell’buono, and she is not even of our cause.”
“She possesses virtues I do not,” Arnaury countered.
“True enough,” allowed the priest. “As to the ‘how,’ arrangements have been made. Signore Castell’buono, although he does not know it as yet, is about to go on a journey. He will be asked by Her Majesty to travel to Angouleme to fetch some documents held at an abbey there. He will be gone at least two days. During that time, you can find occasion to visit his rooms and read whatever it is that is secreted. On the floor under your seat, you will find a key. It will allow you entry into the Italian’s room.”
“So I am to be a thief in the night.”
“Do it in the day if you wish,” said the priest. “Now, I, as you, fully expect that this material will be some sort of hoax or piece of mysticism and do nothing to bring any of the Holy Scripture into question. In the current environment, however, with the Lutherans undermining faith at every turn, the True Church can take no chances.”
“I agree.
“I am heartened. Oh, yes, there is one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“You are under suspicion by the heretics. Sévrier watches your every move.”
“Sévrier?”
“Your supposed servant Philippe. You must discharge your assignment with an eye to his movements.” Père Louis-Paul paused. “We perhaps don’t fully trust you, but we would still prefer that you remain alive.”
By the time Amaury left the chapel, the sun had vanished. A flat, ominous gray sky, under which dark clouds were gathering, promised rain. How fitting, he thought.
The courtyard was deserted. Amaury was grateful for the privacy. He decided to leave the palace and walk in the fields. Not Savoy, perhaps, but open air provoked clear thought. As he headed for the gate, one man tarried on a small bench against the palace wall, clad in soiled, threadbare clothing, seemingly rapt in the attempt to twist an errant cuticle off his thumb. Amaury began to walk past when the man unaccountably lifted his head.
“My, my, Faverges, don’t you look downcast,” said Rabelais. He glanced skyward. “And on such a fine day.”
Amaury nodded briefly but continued on. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
“No, no. Wait.” Rabelais rose and gestured that they should walk together. Amaury’s instinct was to avoid him, but somehow Rabelais, because he respected nothing, was the only person in the palace in whose company Amaury felt at ease.
“You have not been successful?” the writer asked.
“Successful? In what way?”
“In bedding the woman, of course. Or even women. To what else would I refer?”
Amaury averted his gaze.
“Then you were successful! Which one? The cold aristocrat or the passionate peasant? I would prefer the latter. But I am an egalitarian.”
“May I ask you a question?” Amaury asked instead of replying.
“Of course. About women, I hope.”
“Are you what you pretend to be?”
“Quel dommage,” Rabelais replied with a sigh. “How boring.
And, besides, the question is oxymoronic. If I was pretending, then I could not prima facie be genuine. What you want to know is if I am what I appear to be. As outlandish.”
“Yes. You seem almost as if you had stepped from your writings.”
“Perhaps the writings stepped from the man,” Rabelais replied. “But the answer to your question is yes. I am precisely as I appear. Shocking as it may be, there is no pretense or artifice in my manner, either personal or social. On the other hand, you, I deduce, feel you are not what you appear to be.”
Amaury did not reply.
“Therefore, you either do not know how you appear, or do not know who you are. Or, God have mercy, both. But I suspect you know what you appear to be, thus you must not know who you are.”
“Yes. That’s true.”
Rabelais indicated another bench, against the north wall of the palace. “Come sit,” he said. Amaury felt a drop of rain and looked up. “Don’t worry,” Rabelais chided. “If water will not harm one who does not bathe, I feel certain you will be safe.”
They strolled through intermittent raindrops. Rabelais’ feet scraped along the ground as he walked. Once they were seated, he continued. “Usually, my young friend, when people do not know who they are, it is because they do not wish to be what they think they are. Is that the case with you?”
“Yes. Perhaps.”
“So let us start with the simpler question. What do you think you are?
“Castell’buono says I’m a doubter.”
Rabelais waved dismissively to the air. “Castell’buono is a dissembler. His opinion would not matter in any case. Only yours is germane.”
Amaury considered the question. “I think I am a noble bastard whose ambition is fueled by denial of his birthright. I think I have led a life of dishonesty, trying to attain by good works what I was denied by corruption of lineage.”
Rabelais seemed stunned. “My good and merciful Lord. An honest man. I did not think they existed.”
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