The Astronomer

by Lawrence Goldstone

  “I suggest you leave before dawn. The king’s vengeance has just begun. After tomorrow, I’m afraid many more will be swept up. It will give me some sense of peace if you are not among them. If you don’t make yourself conspicuous, you should have little to fear from the Inquisition. Word arrived just this morning by messenger. He had hard-ridden from Nérac, pausing only once a day to eat and sleep. The guard that my dear niece bribed was evidently indiscreet. He was discovered and questioned. He was happy to volunteer that the two of you were on your way to Savoy. No one will be looking for you specifically. Clever of you to employ such a ruse.”

  “I wish we could accept the compliment, Uncle,” Hélène said. “But the misdirection was purely by chance. I planned to take Amaury to safety in Savoy, but he insisted on returning here to attempt to save his friend. The guard had already left us when Amaury told me of his destination.”

  “And you chose to accompany him?”

  “Yes, Uncle. I intend to accompany him wherever he goes for quite some time.”

  “You will go with him to Poland then?”

  “Yes.”

  D’Aubuisson reached out with his short, chubby fingers and touched her cheek. “Such good fortune must be looked upon as a gift from God,” he said. “Your quest is blessed, then.”

  “I would like to think so, Your Eminence,” Amaury replied.

  “I can arrange safe passage for both of you out of the city, despite the kings order. I will give you both a letter that will identify you as on a papal assignment. My personal assistant, Père Étienne, will accompany you. He is completely reliable and trustworthy. You will enjoy unquestioned passage through any gate in Paris. I will also make arrangements for your travel, at least from Paris to the border. You should have little difficulty managing the rest on your own.”

  “That is immensely kind of you, Your Eminence,” Amaury said. “And I have every intention of making the journey to Poland. But first I was hoping you might help us in other ways.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Two things. First, before I leave I was hoping to learn more specifically what plans Magister Ory has for the manuscript and, more importantly, for the man who wrote it.”

  “Of course. Both Beda and Ory are here, within these walls. There is a good deal of conversation between them and the king. Such communication has a way of leaking out. I will find out what I can. What else?”

  “I would ask your assistance in saving my friend Broussard from the stake.”

  The dimples vanished. “He is accused of heresy, Monsieur Faverges. Even I cannot aid someone who has renounced the Faith.”

  “Heretic or no, Your Eminence, I cannot leave Paris with my friend condemned in prison, particularly since I am responsible for him being there.”

  “You are not responsible,” Hélène said. “How could you have known?”

  “I agree,” d’Aubuisson said. “You do him no good by staying. All that you will achieve is your own exposure and cause his death to be in vain.”

  “I dont intend him to die,” Amaury said. “Since you are willing to sign a letter granting us passage from the city, Your Eminence, perhaps you can also sign one that demands Geoffrey to be released into my custody. So that he be returned to the Louvre and questioned further, perhaps.”

  “You can’t ask him to do that, Amaury,” Hélène protested. “He would be found out.”

  “That is of no concern,” d Aubuisson said. “I am a prince of the Holy Church. François has not gone to all this trouble to cultivate Rome to risk failure by prosecuting a cardinal. But I won’t write the letter because it will cause you to be found out. In that case, who will make the journey to Poland? I am sorry for your friend, my son, but we must not lose sight of our preeminent objective.”

  “Your Eminence,” Amaury said, “I will not leave without trying to free my friend. The task will be more difficult if you withhold your assistance, but I must try in any event. If I slink out of Paris and leave Geoffrey to his fate, anything else I do has no value.”

  D’Aubuisson considered his alternatives. “You will not change your mind. I can see that. Once you have freed your friend, you will leave for Poland?”

  “We will be out of porte de Temple within the hour.”

  DAubuisson nodded. “Very well. You will have the letter in the morning. Get some sleep. You will have a long day tomorrow. I will have you awakened at six. Best get to the Conciergerie early to avoid the officers of the watch. But you cannot arrive too early. And do not leave your rooms under any circumstances until Père Étienne comes to fetch you. You dont want to chance a meeting with Ory in the halls.” D’Aubuisson raised a cautionary finger; his dimples returned. “And you certainly don’t want to run into the king.”

  Hélène moved forward and kissed the old man on the cheek. “Thank you, Uncle. I am once again in your debt.”

  “Suborning heresy,” the cardinal muttered. “This has turned into quite a unique adventure.”

  XXXIX

  PÈRE ÉTIENNE SHUFFLED toward the Conciergerie. A timid creature, he both loved and feared the cardinal. Loved because he had never known a man within whom the Lord so obviously resided; feared because his superior’s goodness came directly from God and so the cardinal often ignored the dictates of lesser forces, sometimes even the Holy Father himself. For fifteen years, Père Étienne had planted himself firmly in the cardinal’s shadow: indispensable, omnipresent, and invisible. Père Étienne knew he would never rise above his present position, but lack of advancement mattered to him not one whit. When the Lord called the cardinal to his bosom, Père Étienne would enter a monastery. Carthusian most likely, where he could spend his remaining days in prayer without the necessity of chattering with his fellows. Père Étienne was a man who knew his own soul; he was perfectly suited for quiet, secure servitude. The cardinal knew as well and had never asked his loyal subordinate to perform any task for which he was ill equipped.

  Until now.

  The priest toyed with the sealed letter he was holding under his cloak. If he didn’t shift it in his hands, perspiration from his palms would soak onto the paper. He felt at the raised seal, trying to gain comfort from the cardinals signet, pretending that the dried wax was an embodiment of the man himself. He breathed a prayer of penitence for his distortion of transubstantiation.

  “You must take it, Étienne,” the cardinal had told him before dawn. “Faverges cannot. If he is recognized he will be instantly arrested. My niece is also unsuitable. A woman would not be believed as a courier. I would take the letter myself, but the presence of a cardinal at the prison would arouse more suspicion than our little cabal can bear.”

  “Very well, Your Eminence,” Père Étienne had replied. His acquiescence, however, was distinctly without enthusiasm.

  D’Aubuisson had patted him gently on the shoulder. “That’s a good lad. We are all in your debt.” The cardinal always called him “lad” when the task was unpleasant. Étienne was forty. “When the man, Broussard, is released to your custody, you will see him, Faverges, and my niece to église Saint-Martin and then return here. Do you understand?”

  “Of course, Your Eminence.”

  So he had set out, the cardinal’s niece and the Savoyard with whom she traveled a discreet distance behind. Père Étienne had spent his life able to discharge any duty without a second thought, secure in the knowledge that the power and majesty of the Church was behind him. On this occasion, however, he felt as if he walked alone. He was unused to the sensation and it frightened him. What would he do if events did not transpire precisely as His Eminence assumed they would? If he had to make a decision on his own? If, the Lord forbid, a creative solution was needed to a problem? Père Étienne could not remember a creative act in his entire life.

  Once or twice he had glanced over his shoulder to check if the man and woman were still in eyeshot. Each time he did so, they seemed uncomfortable. Just before the bridge to Cité, he turned and saw that they had va
nished. Père Étienne realized this was to discourage him from turning to look. He felt himself blush. To be reproved like a child.

  Finally he arrived at the prison. The place de la Pays, across from the building, was already packed with citizens of Paris. Four stakes set in bundles of wood and twigs awaited four of the pitiful condemned, and devotees of such affairs had taken no chances on being deprived a prime view. Louts, misanthropes, and drunks—even at such an hour—packed the square. Those of means as well. Even some families. Festivity was in the air. Bread, cheese, and sausage were shared among the onlookers, washed down with wine from large jugs passed through the crowd.

  Père Étienne surveyed the throng, then forced his way to the front gate of the Conciergerie. The foul-smelling gendarmes who usually stood watch at the entrance were nowhere to be seen. Instead, the king’s guard stood as sentinels. Père Étienne felt his innards roil. Secular authority terrified him. But, mercifully, he managed to keep the sensation under control and he was able to address one of the guards.

  “I have been sent with a communication from Cardinal d’Aubuisson. A matter of the highest urgency. Please fetch whoever is in charge.” Père Étienne removed the letter and waved it in front of him. He felt ridiculous. No man was less suited to intrigue. He wanted to peruse the crowd once more, to find Faverges and the woman. Have them take over this foolishness. But the cardinal would hardly have been pleased.

  The soldier looked the priest up and down. He was a swarthy, steely-eyed fellow; square-jawed, with the bearing of a man always on the verge of killing another. Without a word, he cocked his head at one of his comrades. The second soldier nodded and walked toward the hall that led to the interior. Père Étienne was left staring at the man he had addressed. The priest was also unused to being in the presence of someone not cowed by the power of the Church. He felt the need to glance to his feet, but knew that, representing the cardinal, he must not back down.

  A few minutes later an officer appeared, striding ahead of the soldier who had been sent to fetch him. This man was fair-haired with quick blue eyes and an air of culture. Père Étienne breathed easier. Clearly, here was someone who could be spoken to.

  “I’m Captain Beaufort,” the man said. He spoke in Latin. Père Étienne beamed. “What is this vital communication from the cardinal?”

  Père Étienne handed the captain the letter. The captain broke the seal and removed the paper inside, reading quickly. “This says that the heretic Broussard is to be transported to the Louvre for interrogation. In your custody.”

  Père Étienne nodded.

  The captain considered the request. “You’ll have to clear this inside. The executions were to begin within the hour.”

  “I must go . . . with you?”

  “Of course,” the captain said. “Do you expect my superiors to come to you?”

  The captain turned and marched toward the interior of the building. Père Étienne hesitated for a moment, then, repressing the urge to turn and run from the vile place, slowly followed.

  Twice the captain had to stop and wait for Père Étienne to catch up. By the time they reached a large corridor across the courtyard, the captain was making no effort to hide his impatience. Damn Churchmen. They thought the world must move at their pace. Finally, the captain came to a door. He swung it open and strode inside with the letter. The captain closed the door behind him, leaving Père Étienne standing in the hall.

  A few moments later, the captain swung the door open again. “Come in, Father,” intoned a smooth voice from inside. “Let us chat.”

  Père Étienne stepped across the threshold. Behind a desk across the room, under a large cross on the wall, at least eight feet high, sat the black-robed figure of Mathieu Ory, Inquisitor of France. Ory held the cardinal’s letter in his hands.

  “Close the door, Father,” Ory said easily. “Come and sit.”

  Père Étienne padded across the room and sat in the chair opposite the desk. Ory had not moved. After the priest was settled in his seat, Ory made to read the letter, slowly and methodically, although he had quite clearly read through the contents just moments before. When he had finished, he placed the letter on the desktop, then carefully smoothed the paper with both hands.

  “An odd communication from His Eminence, wouldn’t you say?” Ory had furrowed his brow, but his eyes betrayed no confusion at all.

  “I don’t concern myself with such questions, Magister,” Père Étienne replied. “I simply do as the cardinal instructs.”

  “So you are unaware of the reason for this request?”

  “As I said . . .

  “A letter signed by a cardinal has the authority of the Holy Father himself behind it,” Ory went on. “A surprising amount of prestige to bring to bear for a heretic bookseller.”

  “As I keep assuring you, Magister . . . ”

  “Even a man in my position dare not disobey such an order. Still, I do find it curious that His Eminence would wish to add the task of interrogating criminals to his already more than ample duties. Does he suspect that I am not discharging my responsibilities adequately?”

  “I am certain that is not the case.” Père Étienne felt a rivulet of perspiration from his armpit run down his side.

  “Perhaps, then, he seeks to join us in our holy duties. Eliminating heresy is, after all, God’s work.”

  “I do not question His Eminence’s motives.”

  “Of course not.”

  Ory lifted the letter once more. “I expect that you are waiting for the heretic Broussard to be brought to you, so that you may transport him to the cardinal. You would require an escort, would you not?”

  An escort? How could he then take Broussard to the church? But Père Étienne knew better than to refuse. “If you would be so kind as to provide one.”

  “Actually, Father, that will not be necessary.” Quite casually, Ory grasped a corner of the paper in either hand, then tore the letter in half, then in half again, after which he allowed the pieces to drop to the desk.

  Père Étienne watched the paper settle on the desktop with astonishment. Never, in almost two decades, had he seen a high Church communication treated with such contempt. He glanced from the paper to Ory, then back to the paper.

  Ory observed the scene with obvious amusement. “You are shocked, Father. Appalled. The explanation is simple. I work to king and Church. Cardinal d’Aubuisson, at least in this endeavor, works to neither. The cardinal’s liberal proclivities are well known. Why he has identified with this particular heretic I am not aware. Although I intend to find out. What I do know is that he wishes to undermine a Holy Crusade that seeks to rid France of the Lutheran pestilence. Rome shall know of his actions.

  “As for you, Father, I suggest you scuffle on back to your master and inform him that his game has failed. The heretic Broussard will feel God’s justice this very morning. If His Eminence wishes to further contest the point, I will be right here.”

  Ory placed his hands palms down on the desktop. “Now get out.”

  XL

  AMAURY AND HÉLÈNE stood at the far end of the plaza, waiting for Père Étienne to reemerge. Amaury had not been pleased when the cardinal had insisted the priest present the letter to the officers of the Conciergerie instead of allowing him to do it, but the logic had been unshakable. The risk of Amaury being recognized was simply too great.

  “Don’t worry, my son,” d’Aubuisson had assured him, “Père Étienne speaks in my name. Your friend will soon be safe.”

  As the minutes dragged on, however, Amaury suspected that not only was Geoffrey far from safe, but that the priest had come under threat as well. In the cardinal’s sumptuous apartments, on a high floor of the royal palace, surrounded by the trappings of power and wealth, assurances had been persuasive. D’Aubuisson doubtless believed them himself. Here, however, amidst a braying mob of cannibals, d’Aubuisson’s pronouncements seemed naïve and ridiculous. But if the cardinal could know no better—he never saw this France—Ama
ury should have. What had possessed him to think he could snatch Geoffrey away from Ory and the Inquisition with all of Paris screaming for vengeance?

  As Amaury thought of the Inquisitor, Ory himself appeared at the doorway. He walked slowly across the square, expression implacable, dressed in his black cloak and black peaked skullcap, precisely as he had appeared in Beda’s rooms. He mounted a platform that had been erected near the four stakes and cast his eyes over the crowd. In whichever direction he looked, those under his gaze fell silent, only to begin to speak again once it had passed.

  Amaury positioned himself with Hélène so that they were behind a stone column, virtually invisible from Ory’s perch. He had wanted her to wait at the Louvre, but d’Aubuisson had told him it would be dangerous for him to return to fetch her. Once Geoffrey was free, the three of them would make directly for église Saint-Martin, and then for the city gates.

  But where was the priest?

  Ory raised his right hand, palm out, and the entire plaza fell silent.

  “Citizens of Paris, believers in the True Faith,” he intoned. He spoke sufficiently loud as to be heard, but did not shout. “We are here this morning for a sad task, but a necessary one. We do God’s work.” Feeling the approbation of the Inquisitor, a hum rose from the citizenry of Paris. One or two even yelled, “Praise God,” never taking their eyes from the four pieces of wood looming behind the Inquisitor, like fingers pointing to heaven. Amaury noticed that among the spectators were children, some as young as five or six, perched on their parents’ shoulders.

  “As you all know, there are those among us who would subvert the True Faith, disrupt Man’s relationship with the Lord. Send all of Paris, all of France, all of Christendom, on a path to damnation. Our great and wise sovereign, King François, champion of the Lord, has decreed that this cancer must be cut out of the body and soul of Christianity and destroyed.