The Astronomer

by Lawrence Goldstone

  At first, with each atrocity, Hélène looked to Amaury, although there was no longer any question of attempting to intercede as Amaury had done with the old man. As the monstrous scenes became more commonplace, Hélène stared straight ahead as if to will away the slaughter before her. Amaury at first tried to warn her that such behavior could draw the very sort of attention they were desperate to avoid. But he soon realized that her manner might just as easily be interpreted as aristocratic disdain.

  They finally reached grand rue Saint-Jacques, the route to Cité. Blocking their path to the bridge, however, was a pitched battle between two groups of students and masters. Not all the Lutherans, it seemed, were willing to be dragged into the streets to die. The combatants were using anything at hand for weapons: swords, pikes, lengths of iron or wood, paving stones.

  Amaury led Hélène to rue des Noyers to avoid the melee. At place Maubert, as they circled around to attempt to reach the bridge, they came upon a hooting, roaring crowd at the public gallows. The onlookers were mostly students, many not older than fifteen. Soldiers had fashioned additional nooses, and three men had been strung up, kicking and jerking, their eyes bulging out of purpled faces. As each involuntarily loosed his bowels, a cheer went up.

  This sight Hélène could not will herself to avoid. She sat stiff in her saddle, her jaw clamped shut, her eyes rigidly on the gallows, almost as wide as the poor devils’ who were now hanging limp and lifeless in the center of the square. Even by torchlight, Amaury saw that her pallor had become extreme. He reached over and squeezed her wrist. At first she didn’t notice. Eventually she turned to him, uncomprehending. She tried to speak, but no words came out. The whoops of the jubilant crowd pierced the night.

  They could not tarry. The mob would soon seek another outlet for its lust. Amaury took the reins of Hélène’s horse and began to move around the square.

  “Out to see the show?” one boy yelled to them. “The lady bit off more than she bargained for, I see.” Laughter followed.

  Amaury shrugged at the man, as if in agreement, relieved to be able to join a conspiracy rather than be the object of one. Laughter spread and Amaury was able to maneuver the horses away from the square. He found a quiet niche at the south wall of Les Marins, the seamen’s church.

  Before he could begin to soothe her, Hélène spoke. Her voice was even, a metallic monotone, but surprisingly resolute. “I’m all right, Amaury,” she said. “I am, really. I have now seen Hell. I will not be shocked again. Whatever it takes to achieve what you need to achieve, I will never be a hindrance. You have my promise.”

  Amaury wasn’t sure how to respond. Should he take her at her word, or assume that the shock of what she had seen had unhinged her? The answer might determine whether they lived or died. Still, the course of action in either case would be much the same.

  “Very well, Hélène,” he replied simply. “I know I can trust you.”

  “One thing, however,” she added. “When this is done, and we are safely away, I will never set foot in Paris again.”

  “First let us try to get safely away,” he said. “Crossing Cité will be perilous in its own right. With no other avenue from Université to La Ville, I’m certain the streets of the island will be thick with gendarmes and Ory’s agents, ready to grab up anyone even suspected of Lutheran leanings. We’ll use the Petit Pont and head directly across the plaza in front of Notre Dame. Audacious, perhaps, but we have a better chance moving brazenly in a crowd than riding furtively through the streets.”

  Ten minutes later they were at the entrance to the bridge. As Amaury had anticipated, the plaza in front of Notre Dame was thick with soldiers and churchmen. Everyone passing was scrutinized. At the front was a man in magister’s robes. Sometimes he would wave a party by; sometimes he would nod to the soldiers to question or detain the terrified wayfarers. Even from a distance, it was clear the man in the robes was enjoying his role.

  “What’s the matter, Amaury?”

  “I know him. His name is Ravenau.”

  “Can we turn back?”

  Amaury shook his head. “We’d be seen. And besides, there is no other way to get to rue des Bales.”

  “We can’t remain here.”

  “I know how we can get by. It will involve a good deal of risk for you, I’m afraid.”

  “Tell me.”

  When Amaury was done explaining, Hélène nodded. “Yes. That will work.”

  “Remember, keep riding,” he told her. “Hold tight to your bridle.”

  The horses clomped slowly into the plaza. Ravenau was too occupied with intimidating passersby to yet notice his old charge from Montaigu. Suddenly, Hélène’s horse broke. The beast began to gallop across the plaza, scattering the throng. Hélène screamed, appearing to be hanging on for her life.

  “Help her,” Amaury yelled. “She is the cardinal’s niece.”

  All eyes turned to the woman on the runaway horse. The soldiers made futile grabs for the reins as it ran past, but the horse seemed to know when to swerve to avoid them. Amaury waited for a few seconds, then galloped to follow. No one looked his way. When he passed Ravenau, the malevolent fool was looking, as was everyone else, toward Hélène.

  Suddenly, as it reached the end of the plaza, Hélène’s horse slowed. A gendarme guarding the bridge to La Ville was able to take the reins and stop the beast. Amaury reached the spot soon after.

  “Thank you, soldier,” Amaury said. “You have saved the life of Cardinal d’Aubuisson’s niece. The cardinal will be grateful. We are on our way to the Louvre to see him at this very moment.” Amaury had staked his success on Ravenau’s unwillingness to diminish his authority by trekking across the huge plaza to investigate the incident himself. Amaury kept his back to where they had come from. He dared not look behind him to see if Ravenau was behaving as predicted.

  “You’re welcome, I’m sure,” the gendarme replied. He looked to Hélène, who seemed shaken but otherwise none the worse for the experience. The soldier then waved back toward the group in front of Notre Dame to assure them that the lady was unhurt. No one was following then. “I am happy to help a lady and gentleman of the True Faith,” the gendarme added.

  “What is your name, soldier? I must tell the cardinal of your heroism.” The soldier gratefully replied. Amaury had forgotten the name as soon it was uttered.

  Once off the bridge, Amaury and Hélène turned west toward the palace, but then looped around, heading toward the Bastille and Fournières bookshop. Lacking the student population, incidents of violence in La Ville were more sporadic but no less ghastly. Armed men, soldiers and civilians, moved through the streets. Groans from the beaten, punctuated by the occasional scream, filled the night air. Flickers from torches bounced in the distance, like agents of Satan guiding the wicked. The streets smelled of blood. Just east of Saint-Gervais, a bonfire brightened the square. It was only when Amaury and Hélène grew close that they realized that inside the bonfire was the figure of a man. Or rather the charred husk of what had once been a man. Hélène gasped and Amaury steered them away from the horrible sight.

  Finally they reached Saint-Antoine, the most Lutheran section of Paris, and yet the streets were oddly quiet. Perhaps the soldiers had come here first and the violence had burned itself out. Had Broussard been caught up in the maelstrom or was he safe?

  When they reached rue des Bales, Amaury’s heart sank. Three soldiers were perched outside Fournières, drinking wine from jugs, wearing the look of smug satisfaction that comes from persecuting the helpless.

  Amaury gestured to Hélène to remain on her horse, then dismounted and strode to the door. He picked out the soldier who looked a bit less of an idiot, assuming he would be in charge. “Has Monsieur Fournière been arrested? Surely, no one suspects such a pious man of heresy.”

  “Not Fournière.” The soldier lifted his jug and swigged some wine. Overflow ran down his face onto his tunic. “His assistant, Broussard. Seems he was secretly using the shop as a Lutheran mee
ting place.” “Secretly? But I thought Monsieur Fournière lived upstairs.”

  “He does. But his hearing is not what it was.”

  “Really. I never noticed.”

  “When he discovered his assistant’s heresy, he lodged a complaint. Pretty surprised he was, when he finally found out. ‘I now know my generosity was betrayed by this heretic,’ he said. So grateful was he for our arresting the traitor that he has rewarded us with wine.” The soldier took another massive gulp. “As you see.”

  “I see a bunch of drunken louts whose word is hardly trustworthy.”

  “And who are you?”

  “My name is Ravenau. I come from Collège de Montaigu. I work with Magister Ory. You have heard of him?”

  The soldier lowered the jug to his side. “Of course.” Mere mention of the Inquisitor’s name was sufficient to cause the soldier to forget to question why a Montaigu magister was dressed as a gentleman.

  Amaury gestured to Hélène. “I am escorting my sister to the Louvre. There I will report to Magister Ory. He seeks to gather as much information as possible about the Lutheran conspiracy. I was hoping to question this Broussard in advance of my meeting.”

  The soldier looked to Hélène. His glance lingered. Amaury was considering slapping him when the man turned back. “You’ll have to go to the Conciergerie. Best hurry, though. Broussard is condemned. He will be executed tomorrow. King’s order.”

  “I have heard of no such order. Who told you the king is executing heretics before they can be properly questioned?”

  “The lieutenant-criminel himself told us before we were sent out.”

  “I must check this out with Magister Ory. He gave specific orders as well.”

  “As you wish.” The gendarme turned to return to the shop, hoisting his jug as he went.

  “Soldier!” Hélène had barked an order every bit as forcefully as the man’s commander. He turned back to face her. The soldier attempted to leer, but Hélène’s glower wiped the smirk off his face.

  “Traveling to the Louvre will be dangerous. Please assign one of your men to escort us.”

  The soldier shifted from one foot to the other. He could not let himself back down to a woman, even a woman of breeding. “Can’t spare anyone,” he muttered.

  “Our business is urgent. If we are delayed, I will be certain to mention your refusal to help us to Magister Ory. Heresy can come in many forms, you know.”

  The soldier stared angrily at Hélène. What had just moments before been an object of sexual fancy was now an exercise in class confrontation. “All right,” he grumbled. “Can’t see how it matters.” He stuck his head inside the shop and yelled. Soon a young solider appeared. He was too young to grow a beard and had obviously been liberally partaking of Fournière’s wine. “I’II give you Faston. He doesn’t do anything anyway.”

  “Faston will do nicely,” Hélène said.

  After the first soldier disappeared inside with Fournière’s jug, Hélène smiled sweetly at the boy. He seemed dumbstruck. Hélène was perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  “All right now, Monsieur Faston,” she said as if she were cooing at an infant, “I want you to walk ahead of us. If anyone even begins to attempt to impede our progress, I want you to say, ‘Make way, by order of the Inquisition.’ Can you do that?”

  Faston nodded eagerly. He was obviously intoxicated but seemed to be one of those whom drink made more amiable. “Oh, yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. Then let’s get started. When we get to the Louvre, I will see that you are commended for your service and are given a fine meal from the king’s kitchen.”

  “Oh, thank you, ma’am.” The boy was wide-eyed with pride. His skin glowed with alcoholic perspiration. “Let’s be off, then.” He placed himself in front of the horses and began to march in front, all the way repeating, “Make way, by order of the Inquisition,” in a loud voice, even though no one had thought to challenge or delay the party.

  Philippe Sévrier stepped out from the shadows of the same alcove in which he had stood the night he dispatched the courier.

  Minutes. That’s all. He had been minutes too late. Philippe was furious with himself. If he had cut off his conversation at Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Or not stopped to drink at the fountain. Or taken the first price he had been offered for the horse. Perhaps if he had simply walked more quickly. Anything.

  As it was, he had arrived just as Fournière was ushering in the soldiers to have Broussard hauled off. The poor fool. Philippe was close enough to see the terror in his eyes when he was dragged from the shop. Intrigue was more than a game for him now. Philippe had known to avert his face sufficiently so that the pitiful bookseller would not notice the friar loitering outside. Had he not done so, Broussard would certainly have betrayed him. Not by intention. But any reflexive gesture of recognition was sufficient to destroy a man in times such as these.

  After Broussard had been carted away, Philippe was left to wonder. Were they all betrayed? All of them? Arrested, dead, or doomed? Hoess? Turvette? The innkeeper? He should immediately flee the city. By the river as he had been instructed. Then make his way to Zurich where he would be safe. Even celebrated.

  But not yet.

  An escort. To the Louvre. The treacherous Savoyard had finally thrown off the last vestiges of his duplicity. Philippe had almost hurled himself at the loathsome Judas at the sight of the soldier preceding him down the street. But no. First he must check to see if any of the brethren could be snatched from the Inquisition’s jaws.

  If, as he suspected, he was the only one left, there was then but one task left to perform before he left France forever.

  XXXVIII

  “YOU CAN TELL His Eminence anything, Amaury,” Hélène assured him. “I trust him as I would God himself.”

  Cardinal d’Aubuisson shook his head. An old man, short and round, but with gray eyes that twinkled. “A bit too much of a burden, my dear. I do, however, pledge to you, Monsieur Faverges, that once I have given my word, I will respect all confidences . . . ” The cardinal smiled. Dimples formed in either cheek. “Even heretical ones.”

  The cardinal’s apartments in the Louvre were as sumptuous as Beda’s had been ascetic: Plush furniture filled the room, thick carpets lay on the floor, tapestries and beautiful paintings hung almost to the ceiling. A large bookcase lined one wall. Even a cursory glance revealed the contents to be not only theological texts, but also the very sort of secular scientific works that Amaury had read surreptitiously in his days at Montaigu.

  But Amaury was not going to place his life in a man’s hands because of a fine library and dimples. “You would protect heresy?”

  “Not true heresy. But I suspect that what you have to tell me will not go counter to the word of God, but only some fool’s interpretation of it.”

  “And by fools, you mean . . .

  “I expect, Monsieur Faverges, that I mean precisely the same sort of people as you do. I agreed to see you—and protect you—not simply because I adore my niece—although I do—but because I suspect you are in possession of knowledge that will aid the Church. The True Church. The Lords Church. Not the Inquisition’s.” The cardinal frowned. “Or, it pains me to say, the king’s.”

  Whether the cardinal was sincere or dissembling, Amaury had little choice. He was at the mercy of this man’s whim. When d’Aubuisson was informed that his niece was at the gates of the Louvre, he had more or less smuggled her and Amaury inside. They were escorted through side passages far from the wing holding the king’s apartments or the section frequented by more conservative members of the Church. If the cardinal was not as Hélène had described, or what he heard displeased him, Amaury had no hope of escape. But from the man’s excitement as Amaury described his discovery, he knew that Hélène had not been mistaken.

  “Heliocentric astronomy,” the cardinal mused when Amaury had finished his tale. “I have heard rumors. And you say this Pole has proved the theory? You are competent to judge?”r />
  “I am. I did not have the time, of course, to check the calculations, but the methodology was certainly sound.”

  “Extraordinary. A boon if true.”

  “A boon? Excuse me, Your Eminence, but any alteration in the theory of Aristotle and its application by the Blessed Thomas has been deemed heretical. Do you not find it so?”

  D’Aubuisson wrinkled his brow. “Why would I? God’s glory does not rest on the theories of Aristotle or the interpretations of Saint Thomas. Brilliant men, both, but the brilliance of any one man is invariably superseded by the brilliance of another. That is God’s way, is it not? Why should the Church not grow with each great mind who serves it?”

  “Few of your brethren share those views.”

  “There are more than you suppose, although, I agree, not yet in positions of ultimate power. Those are currently reserved, sadly, for either hedonists or fanatics. As a result we have a Church that has replaced devotion with corruption, the teachings of Christ with the pursuit of wealth and power, and true piety with rigor and dogma.”

  “I would not have believed I would have heard such words from a prince of the Church.”

  “Ory, the Inquisition, and Montaigu do not speak for everyone, Monsieur Faverges. They certainly do not speak for me.”

  “So you will help us, Uncle?”

  “To leave Paris? Certainly. Monsieur Faverges must make his exit from the city as quickly as possible. You must journey to Poland, my son, and find this man Copernici. He is in great danger, as I’m sure you are aware. Poland has remained Catholic. Ory will surely send word to have him arrested, or worse. Copernici must be warned.