How could I refuse an offer to wipe away the stain of my past, to become one with God? I vowed before God that once I lefi Madame Chouchous, I would remain chastefor the remainder of my days.
Even with so much at stake, I had reservations when I met Giles. Betrayal is also a sin. To commit a sin to be absolved of sin. A terrible choice. Then I learned that Giles, too, worked in the name of the True Faith. All that was required was that I not reveal my role to him.
Although I do not know who committed the act itself, Giles was murdered on orders of the wine merchant, Monsieur Hoess. He had stumbled on the very material you found in Monsieur CastelV buono’s room. Monsieur Hoess was certain it would be given to Magister Ory.
I learned of the plot only on the night it was set. I lefi Madame Chouchous, frantic to warn him. I arrived too late.
Magister Ory then informed me that he had secured another to continue the work poor Giles had begun. But he could not give this new man his trust. He was too drawn to secular knowledge to be a reliable servant of God.
After the journey to Nérac, upon the successful completion of my task, Magister Ory promised that I could return to Paris and thence to Rouen. I wanted to protect you, but my oath was to tell Père Louis-Paul anything I might learn. Père Louis-Paul, like Magister Ory, is a decent man. He has given me his solemn word that you will not be harmed. After a few days, you will be released to return to Savoy. I ask you to believe that I would not have cooperated with him further, regardless of consequences to me, had he not made this promise.
The priest stopped reading. “She does not overstate. You should be quite flattered, Faverges. You are unworthy of her loyalty.” Then he took up the letter once more.
I do not believe we shall ever see one another again. I asked Père Louis-Paul to write down what you have read to explain why I was forced to behave as I did. I once again beg your forgiveness. When I am safely ensconced with the Sisters, I will prayfor you every day.
The priest folded the letter. “I am abashed, Faverges, to have not been completely truthful with the young woman. I have no intention of allowing you to travel to Savoy or anywhere else.”
The priest then brandished a second piece of paper. “But even after all your duplicity, you might have escaped the harsh treatment you so richly deserve. Her Majesty is a gentle and peaceful soul. Although she is upset that you would use the sanctuary of her home to spy, she might well have eventually weakened and allowed you merely to be banished. Sent on to Savoy where you could live out your life in a bastard’s comfort. But not now.” He waved the second paper under Amaury’s nose. “Do you recognize this?”
Amaury didn’t move. His head had been pulled back for so long that he could barely breathe.
“It is the oath you signed in Magister Ory’s presence. An oath that obviously meant nothing to you. But it does mean something to others. Her Majesty, for example. So there will be no mercy, no weakening. Unless you issue a confession of your sins, you will be left here. For days, or months, or even years. You will never see daylight again. In time—a very short time—you will begin to rave. Or perhaps we will choose to deal with your heresy forthwith. You will confess—we have very persuasive means to assure that you do so—then be taken to a hill outside the palace that is an ideal location to conduct a burning. Your screams will be heard for miles. I leave you here to contemplate which fate would be worse.
“As for your discovery, Magister Ory and I are in your debt. We have now not only identified the basis of the conspiracy to undermine Scripture, you were kind enough to tell us its source. It will be a small matter to dispatch the appropriate agents from Paris to deal with this Pole. Just as it will be a small matter to deal with the conspirators—Hoess, the landlady—we will get them all. Even your friend, the bookseller, though I will tell you he was utterly innocent of the murder of your predecessor. So, Faverges, although I owe you a favor, I am sorry to say that it is a debt I will not repay.”
The priest nodded to the soldier. Amaury felt another rush of pain as he was kicked in the genitals once more. The soldiers then threw him on the hay against the wall, took up the chair for the priest, and left the cell. The door slammed shut. The bolt slid into place. The light receded.
Amaury rolled onto his side and pulled his knees up to his chest, his hands between his thighs. The pain lessened just a bit. Suddenly he vomited. He tried to move his head away but lacked the strength. The stench was at first overpowering, but after some time he became accustomed to it.
The lice returned. The rats scratched in the walls. All that was left now was to face the future, either torture or slow death, with as much dignity as possible. To finish his days in this horrible place pure in the eyes of God. If tortured, his body would be broken; if not, his mind. But God would know that he had attempted to remain true to His word.
Amaury began to pray, but he did not utter a phrase from Scripture. He whispered to God in his own words, a plea for understanding and for mercy. As Rabelais might have done. Amaury reveled in the glory of God’s creation, of finding that the full cup of knowledge had not been given to Man at once, but had been left for Man to discover for himself over time. That was, to him, a Christianity worth dying for. Eventually, feeling goodness around him, he drifted off to sleep. Deep, dreamless sleep. The sleep of the dead.
After a time, he had no idea how long, Amaury was awake. Noise. On the steps. So it was to be torture. Amaury prepared himself. He would face it unafraid. The screams, the agony; over those there could be no control. But God would know that his soul remained pure. He would, then, inevitably, be with God.
The light once again grew brighter in the hall and Amaury soon heard voices grow nearer. The bolt slid back and the door opened. Two soldiers bent forward and entered. Amaury rolled onto his back. But following them was not the priest.
It was Hélène.
XXIX
WAS SHE REAL? Amaury blinked. Had he lost his reason already? Hélène, looking in on him from the doorway, put her hand to her mouth and gasped. Only then did Amaury know he wasn’t hallucinating.
Amaury recognized the soldiers. They were the same ones who had accompanied the priest earlier. But how much earlier?
One of them spoke. “We haven’t much time. Can you stand?”
Amaury leaned forward. Pain again shot through him. He struggled to his knees, then nodded to the soldier. When he attempted to rise, however, his knees buckled. The soldiers grabbed him under the arms, which caused another spasm of agony in his shoulders. Only after a few moments of their support could Amaury stand unaided, although bent and unsteady in the tiny cell.
Hélène retreated into the hall. One of the soldiers stepped out and returned with a bucket and cloth. The second soldier proffered a suit of clothing. “Wash yourself down and then put this on,” he told Amaury.
Amaury first drank from the bucket, then removed his nightshirt and washed himself down with the cloth as best he could. The water stung his raw, bitten flesh. The soldiers held him so he did not fall nor strike his head on the stone ceiling.
“We’re sorry about before,” one of them mumbled. “But if we don’t do what the priest tells us, we end up in here.” Amaury looked the man in the eye for a moment but did not acknowledge the apology.
Soon the water left him feeling slightly better. At least most of the lice were gone. He would never succeed in ridding himself totally of les petites bêtes, but any of his tormentors who had not latched on firmly would be returned to the floor to await another meal.
The soldiers supported him by the elbows as he got into the clothing. Hélène had obtained an understated doublet, leggings, and shorts; the clothing of a gentleman but nothing to arouse undue attention. After he was dressed, he eschewed the soldiers’ assistance and moved out the door himself. He could walk in a slow shuffle.
As he emerged, Hélène stepped toward him. She was dressed in a riding outfit, a long coat slit up the back. Tears welled in her eyes.
“Oh, m
y dear Amaury . . . ” She placed her hand on his cheek. Her touch was cool. “We must get you away from here. Come.” She took a step. Amaury made to follow but stumbled, caught by one of the soldiers. Every time he moved, the pain in his genitals froze his knees and turned the muscles in his thighs to pulp. The soldiers held him as he made his way to the stairs, but as he walked, he slowly regained sufficient strength to move unaided.
“We have thirty minutes. These gentlemen—” She nodded toward the soldiers. “These gentlemen have secured a passage through the palace. Horses are waiting and the gates will be opened. Can you ride?”
Amaury nodded, although the thought of bouncing along on a horse was appalling. Not as appalling as remaining in the castle, however. “Is it night?” he asked her.
Hélène nodded. “Yes. After midnight.”
Amaury struggled up the circular stairway, its uneven stone covered by a layer of moisture that made every step precarious. One of the soldiers kept a hand at his back to prevent him from toppling backward. Finally, they reached a closed door. Amaury estimated that they had climbed three stories. He had been languishing deeper in the earth than the roots of the largest tree. The soldier in the lead held up his hand. He opened the door slowly and slipped out.
Amaury was grateful for the pause. In addition to the pain, he was gasping from fatigue. He had not eaten since he had been dragged from his room. “How long was I there?” he whispered to Hélène.
“Two days.”
“Has Castell’buono returned?”
“No. He is due in the morning. He is to be arrested.”
“And Vivienne?”
“She has been sent to Paris by Père Louis-Paul. She was escorted by six soldiers charged with protecting her with their lives. My maid is . . . friendly with one of them. She told me that Père Louis-Paul evidently gave Vivienne a parcel of great importance. It was found in Castell’buono’s room.”
After I told the priest precisely what to look for, Amaury thought.
The soldier stuck his head back in through the doorway and gestured for them to follow.
“We must make it through the palace silently,” Hélène whispered. “The night guard has been bribed, but if someone should awaken, we will be lost.”
Amaury nodded and followed Hélène and the soldiers into the corridor. He was still unsteady, but could shuffle along without assistance. The soldiers led them through a maze of corridors and darkened rooms, then through the servants’ quarters to the kitchen. They told Amaury and Hélène to wait while they slipped outside to see to the final arrangements. Amaury leaned against a wall for support.
“A few steps more, my darling,” Hélène said, “and then it’s to the horses and on to Savoy.”
Amaury grabbed her by the arm. “Not Savoy. Paris.”
Hélène shook her head. “No, Amaury. That isn’t possible. You’ve been condemned by the Inquisition. You’ll be arrested and burned at the stake. I begged Queen Marguerite, as one woman to another, to allow you to come with me so I might finally experience love. She agreed only if I promised to take you to Savoy. She will be publicly furious at your escape but will not pursue us in that direction. That priest will never know. But she—and I—will be helpless if you head for Paris.”
One of the soldiers motioned for them to proceed. Amaury tottered to the servants’ entrance, the door where the kitchen led to the outside. The soldiers waited impatiently. If they were caught with Amaury and Hélène, they would share the same fate.
Three horses were waiting, their hooves muffled with thick cloth. The third wore panniers, which held clothing and provisions. A sword and scabbard were plainly visible. Traveling without servants would arouse curiosity, but not necessarily suspicion. Two aristocrats on a tryst might well choose to avoid engaging anyone who might later relate sordid details.
The soldiers helped Amaury onto his mount, a steed eager to gallop, not like his old friend the dray. As soon as he was in position, he knew the first hours would be agony. Hélène waved the soldiers away and swung herself into the saddle. She had been expert on horseback since she was six.
One of the soldiers ran ahead. The side gate was opened sufficiently for the three horses to squeeze through single file. The small procession moved slowly, the padded hooves making only a soft, dull scrape. Every time his mount took a step, Amaury felt a spasm shoot through him. But even the most extreme pain is dulled by repetition, and within minutes Amaury knew he would be able to bear it. He turned back one last time, but the gate had already been closed behind them. Within moments, they had passed from eyeshot of the palace walls.
They rode on until Hélène felt at a safe distance from the palace. Then she stopped and fetched bread and cheese. “You must eat something. But quickly. We do not have much time.”
Amaury remained in the saddle. At the first bite of bread, Amaury realized how hungry he was. He wolfed down the rest and drank water from a goatskin. Then he turned his horse toward the north road, toward Paris.
“Please, Amaury,” Hélène pleaded, “Savoy is your only hope of safety.”
“I have no choice, Hélène,” Amaury said. “There is no time to explain. I am grateful to you beyond words, but I must go to Paris.”
Hélène swung herself back into the saddle. “All right, then. We’ll go to Paris. You can explain on the way.”
“But—”
“I lost you once, Amaury. It will not happen again.”
XXX
PHILIPPE SÉVRIER CROUCHED in an alcove near the servants’ quarters. Most were off serving the late-afternoon meal, so traffic was minimal. Still, Philippe’s ear was attuned to every sound, especially the regular, heavy cadence that would denote soldiers. Had he been betrayed as well? No way to be certain.
Faverges was a traitor. Or a spy. He had known from the first. Castell’buono had refused to listen and now he would pay for his arrogance.
Yes, he was clever, the Savoyard. Castell’buono had been correct about that. Clever enough to use the whore to distract him. Clever enough to find his way into Castell’buono’s room. Even clever enough to unearth the gem in a pile of manure. Then his cleverness had seemed to run out. The whore denounced him. An Inquisition plant whose loyalty had turned. But again he had proved himself clever, this Faverges. The Catholics had released him from the dungeon.
Escape? That was the story floating about the castle. A brilliant, audacious maneuver by the d’Artigny woman effected in the early hours of the morning. The queen was outraged; the captain of the guard at a loss. Ha! Philippe did not believe it for a second. Not any of it. All a ruse to throw potential pursuers off the track. Just like the first tale, of expulsion from Montaigu. But this time, not clever enough.
Now the traitor was doubtless on his way to Paris, already with a twelve-hour start. Maybe more. Once in the city, he would broadcast his tale of escape in order to betray those who had trusted him. Hoess. The innkeeper. Even the fool at the bookshop. But worse, he would betray the great secret of the universe. Betray God. This horrible deed must be prevented. Or avenged.
Philippe would have preferred to await Castell’buono’s return before setting out. The Italian was clever too. And, for all his arrogance, he should be warned. But word had just arrived that Castell’buono had been arrested in Angoulême. There would be no help for him. And no hope.
If Philippe had not yet been betrayed, it would only be a matter of hours. No man could keep silent with the branding iron scorching his flesh. But betrayal would be of no matter. Within moments he would leave Nérac, never to return. And after he had done what was needed, he would leave France forever.
Philippe sighed. God forgive him, he missed the Confession. Even the illusion of absolution would be a balm to the turmoil in his soul. And at what price? A few simple prayers, mouthed by rote.
He had always been confused by the power of the Sacraments. How can one take comfort in a ritual one knows is a lie? Can Man be so shallow as to crave only the form of faith but n
ot its substance? Perhaps it was true. Yes. Testament to the cunning of the Catholics was that they had grasped this fundament of the nature of Man. In despair, even false ceremony would be accepted, nay, grasped at. Anything to soothe the pain.
And Philippe was most certainly in pain. He had been so since the night in the alley.
He had been fascinated by the act, unable to get the picture out of his mind. The boy’s wide, uncomprehending eyes, the dark stain spreading across the tunic, the crimson liquid soaking his hand. It had been decisive, a gesture of power. Of commitment. Of true belief. Such an undertaking in defense of one’s ideals was the highest form of worship. But more than all of that, another emotion had crept into his soul, one that, without a confessor, he dared not share with anyone.
He wanted to do it again.
Philippe made for the east gate. A horse would be waiting in the town. And then north, to overtake first Faverges, then the whore. The notion frightened him. Thrilled him. He felt for the knife in his tunic.
God forgive me.
XXXI
AMAURY AND HÉLÈNE rode for hours before Amaury began to feel safe. The water and food, pedestrian as it was, had done wonders. His strength was returning. The pain had abated sufficiently to allow him to realize how much he itched from the lice. Every hour he grew more fit, more able to discharge the task he had set for himself.
Hélène knew as well. She turned to him often now, smiling at what she saw.
“Why did you come, Hélène?” he asked finally. “What do you want?”
“What I have always wanted. What I wanted that day in the field. Do you remember?”
“I have never forgotten.” She was beautiful and regal astride the horse. “The years have been kind to you. You are even lovelier than I remember.”
Hélène smiled ruefully. “Thank you, Amaury. You always appealed to my vanity. I suppose I demanded it. I’ve learned, however, how shallow a gratification that can be. The years, you see, have not been at all kind to me.”
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