Suddenly he was back in Savoy, sitting next to his mother in a carriage, rumbling over rutted mountain roads. February had turned to April. The laurel was in bloom; splotches of pink and white dotted the landscape. Mama was staring out the window and had not spoken since the man in the tunic emblazoned with the duke’s coat of arms had come for them. Amaury, only seven, had grown fearful in the silence. Mama had always been so caring and open. But somehow he had known to remain silent as well.
Finally he could endure it no longer. He asked, “Where are we going, Mama?”
“To see your father.”
“But I thought my father was dead. A captain of the guard, killed at Forenza.”
“No.”
The carriage passed through the gate of a huge château. Amaury’s eyes went wide at the splendor. How different from the simple houses in Faverges. Once inside the gate, the carriage had gone straight toward the magnificent palace in the center of the courtyard. Instead of pulling up in front, however, the driver turned right and went around to the side. The coachman got down, opened the door, and gestured for Amaury and his mother to alight. She held his hand as the coachman led them to a small, heavy wooden door. The door was opened immediately by an ancient, stern-looking chamberlain who glowered at Mama and looked with curiosity down at him.
The old servant led them to a small antechamber. Mama squeezed Amaury’s hand and then released it. “You’ve got to go with this gentleman,” she said. “He will take you to your father.”
“Aren’t you coming with me, Mama?”
“I am not allowed,” she said softly. She reached down and tousled his hair. “You will be fine.” Then the glowering servant had placed a hand at the back of his head and led him away. As he walked through the cavernous palace—the walls hung with immense tapestries, lit by a thousand candles even in daylight—a sprite suddenly appeared. Small, golden haired, and quick as a cat. She darted across the hall in front of him and disappeared behind a pillar. Amaury looked up, but the servant either hadn’t noticed her or was pretending not to have. As Amaury passed the pillar, he turned his head to see, but the girl was no longer there. Maybe she wasn’t real after all. But, as he crossed the great hall to enter his father’s chambers, she appeared again in the far doorway and again was gone in an instant. This time, however, Amaury noticed her eyes, blue like the autumn sky. He didn’t see her again during his visit, but decided she had been sent to protect him from the terrifying spirits that haunted that huge and forbidding palace. He thought about her every day afterward.
When his mother died three years later, the same attendant brought him to the château to live with the servants. Would she still be there? But she was not. All day he looked—in the halls, in alcoves, behind every pillar—but the golden sprite was not there. Finally, after he had been fed in the great kitchen, he trudged miserably to his tiny room to sleep. Just before he reached the door, she darted from a dark corner. She leaned to him and whispered in his ear.
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
A strange voice interrupted. Not hers. Not from Savoy. Amaury became aware of Madame La Framboise calling him for dinner, her voice indistinct, seeming to come through liquid. Amaury blinked at the sunlight pouring into the room, although the sun itself was about to be obscured by the building across the street. How long had he been asleep?
When he arrived downstairs, the table was set for three. The two other boarders were already seated. One was a Swabian named Hoess. A wine seller. He was tall, about fifty, affable, with small eyes, hanging jowls, and a bulbous, outsized nose. The other was a short, dour lawyer from Brittany named Turvette. Amaury introduced himself. As he took his seat, Hoess thanked Amaury for funding the feast.
“You will soon find out what a wise decision you made,” Hoess added. “You are in the presence of culinary artistry unmatched even in the Louvre.”
“Yes,” Turvette agreed. “We are fortunate to have someone so obviously prosperous share our table. What brings you to Paris?”
“I have been in Paris,” Amaury replied.
“Where?”
“At Collège de Montaigu.” He became conscious of a sumptuous aroma wafting in from the kitchen.
“Montaigu?” asked Turvette, raising his eyebrows in surprise. The lawyer was a horse-faced fellow with narrow, pinched lips that seemed perpetually moist, lending him an air of morbid anticipation. To Amaury, he conjured up the image of a man happy to sign warrants of execution all the while avoiding responsibility for actually carrying out the sentence.
“Yes,” Amaury muttered. “Nine years.”
“Bon appétit!” Madame La Framboise trilled as she led fat Sylvie, the kitchen maid, to the table. Sylvie carried a large metal pot by the handle, protecting her hand from the heat with a thrice-folded piece of sackcloth. After Sylvie placed the pot on a large tile, Madame La Framboise shooed her out and ladled the bowls of stew herself. She placed the first bowl before Amaury. The instant she did so, he felt his jaws begin to work. The perfume of the sauce, rich, flavorful, and hearty, settled into his nostrils, all but overpowering him. He reached for his double-tined fork but at first could not bring himself to lift it, so long had it been since he had tasted such food. He found himself afraid to do so now. Finally, he succeeded in getting his hands and arms to move. What to try first? He chose the morsel of duck breast against the side of the bowl. He speared it and placed it in his mouth.
Amaury had studied the nature of Heaven for nine long years, but never had one of the magisters described Paradise in terms of a small piece of duck. But what did they know? He washed it down with a sip of excellent red wine, donated for the occasion by Hoess. Amaury heard himself almost purr. Suddenly, he looked up and saw that both Hoess and Turvette were staring at him.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, “but it’s been quite a while since I’ve tasted anything so good.”
Madame La Framboise beamed. Hoess nodded and cocked an eyebrow, as if to say, “I told you.” Then Turvette said, “The rigors of Montaigu are sufficient to drive many away, I’m told.”
“More than sufficient,” Amaury agreed curtly. He returned to his dinner, switching to his spoon for a taste of beans and thick sauce.
“And you left by choice?” the lawyer continued, before Amaury could swallow.
“Not by choice, no.” Amaury tried once again to busy himself with his food. If Turvette asked one more question and ruined his meal, Amaury swore to himself that he would leap across the table and implant his fork in the man’s forehead.
Mercifully, Hoess changed the subject. “Did you hear the latest from Amboise?” The king was then in residence at his château on the Loire. “It seems that our François took a new mistress, the Countess Caron-RoussillonHoess chuckled, his jowls flapping like a hound’s. “Unfortunately, he could not bring himself to part with Angeline de Bec, his old mistress. Angeline was supposed to be in Aups, visiting her mother, so François felt free to play his game of boules with the countess.”
Amaury settled in, slowly and luxuriantly ingesting the magnificent dinner. Hoess seemed a natural storyteller and this had the makings of an amusing tale.
“But Angeline returned unexpectedly,” Hoess went on. “Very late at night. She decided to surprise her lover by slipping into his bed. Au naturel.” He made to trace a woman’s figure with his hands. “The king’s guard, who was supposed to warn His Majesty of just such an eventuality, had fallen asleep outside the bedroom door. Angeline tiptoed past the poor wretch, removed her garments, crept over to the bed, lifted the covers, and got in. Imagine her surprise when, instead of the royal instrument, she encountered the somewhat more malleable form of the Countess Caron-Roussillon, who was attired as was she.”
“No!” gasped Madame La Framboise, raising a hand to a gaping mouth.
“Yes,” chortled Hoess. “Evidently, there was a scream. Followed by a second scream. The guard awakened and burst in, only to find two naked woman wrestling and pulling each other’s hair on t
op of the bed.”
“What was the king doing?” asked Madame La Framboise breathlessly.
“He was laughing!” Hoess replied. “He let them fight for a good five minutes before he had the servants break it up.”
“How did you hear of this?” asked Madame La Framboise.
“I sell to the steward,” Hoess replied. “We wine merchants have excellent sources of information.”
Amaury had a morsel of sausage on his fork but put it back. The stew had begun to settle in his belly, evolving from a feeling of blissful fullness to bloated discomfort. He took some wine to aid his digestion.
“What happened?” he asked.
Hoess smiled at him. “Both women left Amboise before morning. The guard is gone as well. Lucky François enjoyed the spectacle, or the guard would not be alive. The king, I am told, is currently being consoled for their absence by Marie-Ange Montbrison, a beauty and the daughter of Eugenie Montbrison, a previous mistress.” He took a swig of wine, his nose rising like a promontory. “You don’t hear stories like that at Montaigu, I’ll warrant.”
“True enough,” Amaury admitted. Other than an occasional trip to a brothel, he had had no contact with women, naked or otherwise, in longer than he could remember.
“I have never met a Montaigu student before,” Turvette interjected. “How does one enroll in such a place?”
“Leave the man alone,” Hoess said before Amaury could reply. “The last thing a newly freed man needs is to be reminded of his captivity.” He turned to Amaury. “You seem like a fine fellow. I’m sure we are going to be friends.”
VII
THE NEXT MORNING, Amaury visited Fournière, the bookseller on rue des Bales. From the outside, Fournière’s was an unprepossessing establishment, a plain stone storefront on a small, grimy, narrow street at the rear of église Saint-Antoine, about a ten-minute walk from Madame La Framboise’s rooms on rue de la Cerise. But, as bibliophiles from across Europe were aware, behind the shabby exterior lay one of the finest establishments of its kind to be found anywhere on the continent. Many of Fournière’s wares—incunabula, rare manuscripts, works of early printers like Fust and Schoeffer, even a Catholicon from the great Gutenberg— were of such rarity and value that the shop could rightly have been called a museum.
Fournière himself was over sixty although no one seemed certain just how far over. He had a fringe of white hair, skin almost as pale, and was so bent that, without the stick that he used to lead him from place to place, he would certainly have pitched forward and lain helpless, commalike, on the floor. Although he lived only one floor above, Fournière spent little time in the shop, clunking through with a scowl two or three times a day to peruse the stock, muttering to himself as he went. He occasionally paused over a volume to check for dust or to ensure that the vellum or morocco covers had been polished with the special oil that prevented cracking or shrinkage. For the remainder of the time, Fournière remained invisible. Day-to-day operation was entrusted to Broussard, his assistant.
Broussard had persuaded the old man to hire him three years before, appealing to Fournière’s dual loves of indolence and loot. While preserving the antiquaria for which the establishment was known, Broussard brought a contemporary feel to the shop, adding the newest translations of Plato, Aristotle, and Thucydides from the printer Estienne, Fuchs’s herbals, agronomy texts, and the latest edition of Dürer’s Apocalypse. Broussard had cleared an entire section at the front of the shop to display the satires of Erasmus and Rabelais, the bestselling authors in Europe.
As a result, the shop now attracted a younger, more vigorous clientele, members of a well-heeled bourgeois class who had benefited from François’ obsession to build a younger, more vigorous Paris. Fournière grumbled even more than usual whenever he meandered through the sections of the shop that Broussard had modernized, but not so much as to eschew the additional revenues that his ambitious young assistant deposited in his coffers.
Broussard was near the front when Amaury walked in. He noticed the change at once. “Much more suitable,” he said, gesturing toward Amaury’s doublet, tights, and shoes. “An aberration or permanent?”
“Permanent. I have left. Finally.”
“Congratulations. Took you long enough. I always wondered why you went to such pains to please a father who wouldn’t even deign to acknowledge your existence. I never did.”
“You never had the opportunity. But you’re quite correct. It was, it seems, a fool’s errand run by a fool. When a father is displeased at the very birth of a son, there seems little that son can do to alter the feeling.” Broussard was one of the few to whom Amaury had confessed his lineage. Or rather the lack of it.
Broussard’s given name was Geoffrey. He was, in theory, the son of a French linen merchant and an English lady-in-waiting to Mary Tudor, Henry of England’s younger sister. A quarter century earlier, Mary, renowned as the most beautiful woman in Europe, had been married off to François’ predecessor, Louis XII, in order to provide a male heir. An odious chore, as Louis was thirty years her senior, bent, dyspeptic, and covered with scabies. But if Mary was successful, Henry would have a direct line to the French throne. She apparently discharged her responsibilities faithfully—Louis died two years later, succumbing, it was widely speculated, to sexual excess, but without producing a son. Mary immediately absconded with jewelry and gold, sneaking back across the channel with her true love, the Duke of Norfolk. Broussard’s mother had been left behind and tossed into a cell in the basement of the Louvre.
The new king, François, ever sensitive to a woman in distress, released her on the condition that she marry a Frenchman and remain in the country. Rumors abounded that François had exacted other conditions as well, rumors considerably enhanced by Geoffrey’s height, long nose, and prominent chin. Amaury had thus found a level of comfort with Broussard that was almost filial. All bastards were, in effect, only children.
“Come to the back,” Broussard said, taking Amaury by the elbow. “Now that you’re a free man, there’s something I want to show you.” He released his grip, but only to clap Amaury on the back. “Actually, I would have shown you anyway, but it’s more fun now. We can drink some of the old man’s ghastly wine to celebrate your release.”
Amaury followed Broussard to the back room. The walls were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A heavy wooden table and chairs sat in the center. In here, Fournière kept his most prized possessions. Amaury and Broussard had often passed time poring over a prized volume. Amaury had always been forced to cut short the visits so as not to be missed at Montaigu. Until now.
Broussard poured two cups of wine and delicately removed a thick folio, finely bound in white vellum, from a middle shelf. He placed it on the table, in front of Amaury.
“Go ahead. Look through it. I was holding it for you before I put it out. It’s Colines’ edition of Ruel’s De Natura Stirpium. If you want it, it’s yours. I’ll even give you the famous Fournière’s discount.”
“Nothing?”
Broussard shrugged. “A man must earn a living.”
Simon de Colines was one of the first of the French printers to produce works in the sciences. Amaury opened to the title page, an intricate arbor spun with grape vines over a fountain filled with flowering plants, designed by the great astronomer and mathematician Oronce Finé. Botany was not his field, but who could resist a work both beautiful and encyclopedic? The author, Jean Ruel, was physician to François, and this volume contained descriptions of six hundred plants, the most complete treatise of its kind ever produced in France.
“This is glorious,” Amaury said. Broussard stood over him, arms crossed, as proud as if he had printed the folio himself. “Is it the original?”
“No,” Broussard sighed. “Only a second edition. The first sold out instantly and is almost impossible to come by. This edition is quite difficult to acquire as well.”
“And therefore expensive?”
“What is good in life that does not come wit
h a price?”
“And that is?”
“A quarter écu d or will do nicely.”
“Nicely for you, perhaps. But very well. Keep it here for the time being. I’m staying temporarily in a room on rue de la Cerise. I’m let you know when I make permanent arrangements.” Amaury looked about as Broussard returned the volume to the shelves. “You know, Geoffrey,” he said finally, “I have often noticed that, in an establishment of such extensive stock, there seemed a paucity of a certain variety of book.”
“And what type of book is that?”
“Theology seems to be vastly underrepresented.”
“Not at all,” Geoffrey demurred. “Why, just yesterday we received a shipment of Froben’s new edition of the works of Saint Augustine.”
“Meum testimonium subtile,” said Amaury. “My point exactly. Augustine is fourth century and will have little companionship on your shelves among farmers, physicians, and astrologers.”
Broussard stroked his long Valois chin, then took a drink of wine. “Are you certain you’re not spying for Montaigu?”
“Actually, I’m spying for the Inquisition. Ory himself recruited me. I insisted on a particularly energetic beating to defray suspicion.”
“Quite. But in times such as these, one must take care. It’s best to avoid flaunting one’s true beliefs.” Broussard rolled his eyes toward the ceiling that was the floor of Fournière’s bedchamber. “He is not in agreement, of course. He would have every one of the saints memorialized on the wall and a shrine to the pope in the doorway.”
“And you would have the works of . . . more recent religious philosophers?”
“Perhaps,” Broussard replied. “Although I have nothing against the Church. It is, however, difficult sometimes to see past the excesses. Your experiences at Montaigu, which you have so eloquently described, are but one extreme. The living standards of Church fathers in Rome are quite another.”
The Astronomer Page 5