“So, this morning, four of those who would corrupt our Holy Church and . . . ” Ory leveled a finger at the crowd, “endanger your souls, will be consigned to the flames, purified, so that their souls will once more return to a state of grace.”
Ory turned toward the building’s entrance and nodded. The hum from the spectators increased. Three soldiers appeared, marching side by side in unison, then three more. The noise level in the square rose still higher. Finally, the condemned were brought forward, each wearing sackcloth, escorted on all sides by the king’s guard. A cheer went up from the spectators.
Geoffrey was first, the king’s own son. François must have known. How could he allow this? The man must be the devil himself, not worthy of the loyalty foisted on a dog, let alone a king. Even Amaury’s father would never countenance such an end for his progeny, illegitimate or not. Or would he?
The bookseller was followed by Hoess, then a man Amaury did not know, and, finally, Madame Chouchou. So Vivienne had betrayed even the woman who was teaching her to read. All four wore expressions of terror; eyes impossibly wide, skin almost white, mouths quivering. When they reached the center of the plaza, another cheer went up, louder than the first. Cries of “Burn them!” and “God’s vengeance!” and “Praise the Lord!” filled the air. With each explosion of noise, the four wretches seemed to grow increasingly bestial. Soon the four appeared as cattle, being led toward a fate they neither understood nor thought real.
Amaury felt ill. He wanted to rush forward, to either save them or die with them. What could life mean after what was about to transpire? Suddenly he felt a tug on his sleeve.
“I tried. I did all I could. Magister Ory himself tore up His Eminence’s letter. Come. We must leave now. I sent word. His eminence himself is meeting us at église Saint-Martin.”
“We can’t go,” Amaury said to the priest. He suddenly found the toadying little man loathsome. “We’ll be seen. We’ve got to stay. Until the end. Then we’ll slip away in the crowd.”
“Oh, no, Amaury. We can’t.” It was Hélène. She was shaking as if with ague and had turned away from the horrible spectacle unfolding before her.
“We have to. If we try to leave and are caught, we may be joining those poor devils.” Amaury grabbed Père Étienne by the shoulder. He should not abhor the man, he knew, but he did all the same. “You can leave, however, without suspicion. You’re a priest.”
Père Étienne quaked in Amaury’s grasp.
“Go to église Saint-Martin. Tell the cardinal what happened. If we are to leave Paris now, I’m not certain that a letter from him will be sufficient to get us past the guards. We’ll meet you there as soon as—” Amaury cocked his head toward the front of the plaza. “We’re able.”
The priest nodded and slinked off.
Hélène had taken refuge, moving completely behind the pillar. Amaury didn’t want to look, but he could not keep his eyes away. He felt compelled, somehow, to bear witness.
Geoffrey and the others had been hauled up to small stands that had been fastened a third of the way up each stake, just above the piles of kindling. A black-robed monk was chaining each of them to the post. Geoffrey had turned resolute, even defiant. Hoess stared at the crowd, still seemingly unable to grasp what was to come. The man Amaury did not know, thirtyish, fair, and fat, was whimpering, saliva dripping uncontrollably down his chin. Occasionally a low moan escaped him, which caused the crowd to hoot and cheer.
Madame Chouchou was the most striking of all. She was without her wig and garish clothes; simply a large, plain, fleshy woman with graying hair. She now neither cringed nor wept. A beatific resignation had come over her; she stood silently, almost placid, perusing the jeering mob. Amaury had never seen anyone display more dignity. When he was preparing for just such a fate in the dungeon at Nérac, he had prayed for God to give him the strength to bear his trial with similar decorum. A brothel owner was demonstrating to all how one who believes in God’s mercy and deliverance should face death.
Ory began reading prayers. The crowd was once again silent, but Amaury hardly heard the words. He remained next to the pillar at an angle where the Inquisitor would not be able to pick him out of the crowd. Hélène remained behind it.
Geoffrey continued to stare out at the crowd, his jaw set, refusing to give his tormentors the satisfaction of seeing him afraid. Amaury felt tears on his cheeks. Is this what the Church had become? How could these abhorrent men think they spoke for God?
Amaury could not see from whence it came, but a torch was suddenly in Ory’s hand. Never ceasing to mumble prayers, to speak to God, the Inquisitor lit the kindling under Geoffrey’s feet. Then he moved to Hoess, then to the unknown man, then to Madame Chouchou. The fires burst full almost immediately. At least the four would have fast deaths and not slow roasting over green wood with leaves still on the branches.
The crowd had hushed as the ceremony was carried out. Suddenly, an animal cry filled the plaza, then a series of shrieks as the flames enveloped the condemned. Geoffrey had held out as long as he could, but his screams had eventually come. Madame Chouchou, however, remained silent. She had raised her eyes to the heavens. Her lips were moving in prayer. Amaury was stunned. Did she not feel pain? Did God truly live within the brothel owner? Madame Chouchou among the elect? Calvin would have sneered.
The crowd had been reawakened by the cries of the dying. Their cheering began and grew louder as the flames rose. Geoffrey’s head swung back and forth as the fire grew hotter. Suddenly, his arms seemed to explode in a torrent of blood. The fire had heated liquids within him so that the vessels that held them burst. The screaming from the pyres was no longer human. Geoffrey’s eyes began to bulge from their sockets. Amaury finally turned away, able to bear the sight no longer, but from the paroxysm of cheers, realized all too well what had happened.
The smoke, gray when the fire began, had turned black. The wind was blowing from the east, and soon a cloud drifted over the square, bringing with it a sickly sweet odor of cooking meat. Rather than be nauseated by the sensation, the spectators seemed exhilarated. “On their way to damnation, and we can smell it,” one zealot yelled, and his fellows let out a shout of piety.
Hélène was still behind the pillar, bent over. Amaury put his arm over her shoulders. As the transformed essence of the four Lutherans permeated the arena, the calls to God continued to rise, soon reaching a crescendo, then, with the clearing of the air, began to subside. Fifteen minutes later, it was over. The wood continued to smolder, but all that was left of Geoffrey and the others was bone and strings of blackened flesh. Soon the spectators, spent after their emotional outpouring, would begin to disperse and Amaury and Hélène could make their escape.
He turned to look one last time. He wanted to remember and he would. What he saw would remain with him, every day, every moment, until the day he died.
Four charred husks, black, smoldering, unrecognizable as human except in outline of form. Save for a vague sensation of length, each of the four was indistinguishable from the others. Amaury stared at what had once been Geoffrey: his friend, a scholar, brave, and true to his beliefs. Now a grotesque relic, a testament to the corruption of God’s word by those who were convinced they spoke in the Lord’s name.
Castell’buono had been correct, God save his soul. Amaury no longer had doubts. For the first time in his life, he was absolutely certain of what he believed. He made a vow. He would fight them. The zealots. The ignorant. He would oppose the Orys, the Calvins, the Bedas with every breath. He would dedicate his life to a better Christianity.
As his first act, he would journey to Poland and save the astronomer.
The spectators were leaving. Most headed for the three bridges to La Ville, although a fair number of students had also come to enjoy the spectacle and had turned toward l’Université.
Ory remained on his platform as the plaza emptied, surveying the scene, an expression of satisfaction on his face. Amaury took Hélène by the arm. “We must go
now. You need to gather yourself. We cannot still be here when everyone else is gone. We will drift out. Don’t turn to look.”
Hélène nodded. She had given her word just yesterday, when she thought she had seen Hell, but that was before its true manifestation had come before her. Amaury tried gently to raise her to a standing position. The plaza was fast emptying and soon they would become conspicuous.
Hélène straightened up, staring over his shoulder. “Amaury!” she screamed.
By reflex, Amaury spun and threw his arm in front of him. He felt a tingling sensation just above his wrist. He knew he was bleeding.
Before him was Sévrier, dressed as a Franciscan friar, a knife in his hand. He stared at Amaury with loathing.
But Amaury’s sudden movement had thrown off Sévrier’s aim and prevented the knife from finding its mark. Sévrier seemed unsure of whether to attempt another thrust now that his adversary was aware of his presence.
At Hélène’s scream, members of the crowd who had been filing by halted, aghast. Watching from a distance in safety as four helpless Lutherans were burned to death was one thing; a mad, knife-wielding friar close enough to send their own entrails gushing across the square quite another. But blood lust was up as well. They didn’t rush Philippe, but neither did they back away. Instead they surrounded the mad friar.
Suddenly, a cry cut through the air.
“Stop that man!”
The crowd as one turned to the Inquisitor’s voice. Then, after only a moment of confusion, they fell upon Philippe.
Ory was running their way, fighting through the departing spectators, trying to yell, “No, the other one!” but the crowd either did not hear him or did not understand what he meant.
Amaury grabbed Hélène. His wound was bleeding but not profusely. “Come. Quickly.” He led her past the pillar to a small side street in the direction of l’Université. As he ducked away, Amaury saw Ory wending his way to where four men had pinned Philippe to the ground. He was trying to make them understand that they had gotten the wrong man.
He led Hélène through small streets and alleys. Although foot traffic was still sufficient to somewhat mask their movements, Amaury turned often from one street to another so they could not be spotted from a distance. He heard yelling behind him, but it soon became indistinct. His pursuers would be unable to know whether he had sought a place to hide or was making for one of the five bridges.
Eventually, Amaury looped back toward the bridges that led to La Ville. He had been grasping his right forearm tightly with his left hand, trying to stanch the bleeding. He lessened the pressure slightly and was relieved to see that no gush of blood followed. His chemise had stuck to the wound, helping to close it. It would bleed again when he removed the garment, but he would worry about that later. For now, he was aware only of his good luck. Had Hélène not screamed precisely when she did, Amaury would be at this moment either lying near death on the ground or in Ory’s clutches.
They made steady progress and neared pont au Change. Once across the bridge, they could disappear into La Ville as they made their way to église Saint-Martin. But if they were stopped, even for a few moments, Ory’s pursuit would run them down. A group of raucous revelers appeared from a side street, three men and two women. They were not of the lower classes, but neither were they affluent. Merchants, perhaps, or artisans. Amaury motioned for Hélène to fall in with the group.
“Never seen four at once before,” one of the men was saying, a dark, husky fellow with thick, heavily calloused hands. “Quite a show. Ory’s a good man for that.”
“Unless you’re one of those on the posts,” his friend observed. “No fun then.” The second man was more wiry, but otherwise a match for his companion.
“Not me,” replied the first man. “I go to church and observe the sacraments.”
“Then you’ll be safe, my brother,” Amaury chimed in. “Free to watch these shows as long as the king approves.”
“At this rate, though,” one of the women said, “we’ll be out of Lutherans in weeks. What will we do then?” She was large and florid, about thirty, already making an unattractive transition to middle age.
“Perhaps the king will then begin on the Catholics.” It was Hélène. How she had managed to get a lilt into her voice, Amaury could not imagine.
“Ha! That’s funny,” said the second man. “After that, what will be left of Paris? Five Jews?”
Amaury and Hélène had now fully integrated themselves into the group. Hélène was walking between two of the men, to their obvious pleasure and the women’s irritation. The woman who had spoken took Amaury’s arm in retribution.
“Oooh, love, what happened to you?” she asked when she saw the dried blood.
“There was a lunatic back there. Began slashing at people with a knife. The gendarmes have him now, though.”
“A lunatic?” said one of the men gaily. “Sorry I missed it.”
They were yards from the bridge. Eight soldiers stood guard, but did not seem to be looking for anyone specifically. They would, however, have general orders to sweep up anyone who appeared to even potentially be a Lutheran.
“Perhaps some wine?” the woman said. Amaury was sufficiently well dressed for her to assume he would pay.
“Of course,” Amaury said with gusto. They were at the bridge’s entrance. He listened for any sounds of pursuit behind him. A yell now could ruin them. “But let’s wait until we get to La Ville. And let’s go quickly.”
“Never can be too quick for a drink,” one of the men chimed in. “If we can’t celebrate the purification of Paris, what can we celebrate?”
“Of course.” The group of seven moved past the guards, too bored spending their day watching pedestrians cross in front of them to do more than glance up. Once onto the bridge, Amaury made sure to keep up the chatter.
He knew he should not, but when they were halfway across, he glanced over his shoulder. The soldiers were not looking their way. Just a few minutes more.
Suddenly another soldier ran up to the guard. He began talking and gesturing. Hélène noticed Amaury’s expression and began to look back as well, but Amaury shook his head. He turned and faced forward. Their five companions continued to natter, but Amaury didn’t hear. His senses were directed behind them, attuned to the sound of pursuit.
They were far enough across that the soldiers would only give chase if they made the connection. Amaury could imagine what they were saying. “A man and a woman? Well dressed? The man wounded?” Amaury hoped they would also say, “Traveling alone?” If the guards had not noticed them, they would remain at the bridge with the other soldiers, lying in wait to nab the fugitives who had in fact already passed them.
God was with them once more. There was no pursuit. Amaury and Hélène had successfully camouflaged themselves in the group of revelers. How often people look, Amaury thought, but never see.
Amaury, Hélène, and their companions passed out of pont au Change, only two bored gendarmes standing guard on the bridge’s far side. As soon as they had passed into the main section of the city, the woman squeezed close to Amaury. He could feel the press of her large breasts. “Okay, love, now where do we go for the wine?”
Amaury turned up a side street so that they were out of eyeshot of the bridge. “I realize that the hour is later than I thought,” he said. The mood of the five instantly darkened. “But,” Amaury continued, “I am a man of my word. I promised you wine, and wine you shall have.” He withdrew twenty silver francs from his purse. Enough to be persuasive, but not so much as to cause his erstwhile companions to be tempted to rob him. “Here,” he said, giving the money to the woman, “please drink with my compliments.”
The woman pressed against him once more. He tried not to cringe. Hélène, even after the unspeakable events of the last two days, actually stifled a grin.
“Why, thank you, love,” the woman trilled. “Gentlemen are so hard to find these days.” She glanced sidelong at her companions. “If
you know what I mean.”
XLI
ONCE THEIR FIVE COMPANIONS had disappeared, Amaury and Hélène made directly for église Saint-Martin. Père Étienne was waiting just inside the door, breathing heavily as if he had run to get there, although Amaury knew it was simply fear. The priest gestured quickly for Amaury and Hélène to follow him through the nave to the door that led to a vestry, glancing about the church as if phantom inquisitors had seeped in through the cracks.
Inside the room was Cardinal d’Aubuisson. He seemed near tears. No dimples now.
“I have been told. I am embarrassed to be a member of the same Church as that murderer. I will do all I can to help you. I cannot believe that the word of God can remain perverted by such men as Ory for much longer.”
Amaury was certain that the word of God could remain perverted as long as there was a word of God, but there was no reason to add to d’Aubuisson’s despair. “He will denounce you for trying to interfere,” he said instead.
D’Aubuisson dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. “He will find that his brand of piety does not sit nearly as well in Rome as he assumes. Some in the Curia are, like me, seeking reform, to move the Church to a more enlightened, modern incarnation. Others, quite the other way, do not wish their own earthly pleasures to come under question. In either case, such zealotry is anathema. As for the king . . . he cannot very well court the Holy Father’s support against Charles by persecuting princes of the Church. No, my son, I will survive very nicely.” He gestured for Hélène to move closer, then held out his hands for her to take. “But you, my dear, are under great threat. I encourage Faverges here to undertake his mission to Poland, but could I not prevail on you to eschew such a dangerous journey?”
“No, uncle. After . . . this . . . how can I stop now? If Amaury should fail, what point would there be to continue living?”
“But a woman, chasing after assassins? Is this what you wish, Faverges?”
“I have learned in these past days, Your Eminence, that attempting to make decisions for your niece is a fruitless exercise. But what assassins do you mean?”
The Astronomer Page 24
