When he appeared in the hall, Philippe looked him up and down but said nothing. On the walk across to the palace, Amaury asked their destination. Philippe informed him that Queen Marguerite was in the receiving room, where she customarily sat in the presence of her guests until well after dark, when dinner was served. When Amaury commented on the lateness of the dinner hour, Philippe told him that five meals were customarily taken each day, the fourth of which had been completed while Amaury took his toilette.
The guard at the palace door nodded as Amaury and Philippe walked through. The interior of the palace wing had been recently renovated and showed even more of a southern influence than the exterior. The halls employed a liberal use of arches, and the tile work on the floor seemed almost Moorish. Nérac had been conquered by the Arabs in the eighth century on their march north, before Charles Martel won his great victory in the fields between Tours and Poitiers. When they constructed their palace, King Henri’s forebears had apparently chosen to celebrate the vanquished rather than the victor.
Two guards stood at the receiving room’s set of lacquered wood double doors wearing the Albret coat of arms, a remarkable polyglot of Navarrese gold ropes, Valois fleurs-de-lis, and English lions. Amaury looked to his left, but Philippe had vanished like a phantom. The guards reached for the door handles, preparing to swing them open.
Amaury’s eyes became fixed on the doors. Thirteen years. The last time he had been at court. Why had his father done it? To elevate him? To humiliate him? Everyone knew. He had realized that instantly. The snickers and sidelong glances. Placed at a side table where he could watch his half siblings be fawned upon whilst he was treated with disdain, even by the servants. No one spoke to him. Even Hélène seemed embarrassed by his presence. His father glanced his way every so often, but he could read nothing in the old man’s face. As the meat was served, Amaury saw Charles, the duke’s oldest true son, fourteen but with the malevolence of an adult, huddled with his friend János, a Hungarian prince. They were looking Amaury’s way and guffawing. Finally, Janos stood and strolled over to where Amaury was seated. Amaury refused to look up. “Ah,” János had said with mock curiosity, “you’re the son of the whore, yes?” Without a second’s hesitation, Amaury had stood and, in one motion, lifted the leg of mutton on his plate and smashed it across János’s jaw. The boy went down in a heap. The duke rose from the table and in a thundering voice ordered Amaury from the room. Amaury tried to meet Hélène’s eyes as he stormed out but, as had become her custom, she deliberately turned away. Three weeks later he was on his way to Paris, to the university. As he rode through the gates, he swore he would never return unless he sat at the same table as his father. Acknowledged as a true son. Amaury de Savoie.
He blinked and realized the guards were waiting for him to take a step forward. Amaury nodded and they swung the doors open. He stepped into a large, sumptuously furnished room, different in every way from his father’s raucous, martial court in Savoy. The ceilings were at least fifteen feet high. Scrollwork adorned the crossbeams, and the ceiling in between was inlaid in fleurs-de-lis. The floor was inlaid as well, in a diamond pattern of dark and light wood. Two enormous windows dominated the north wall, hung with deep-purple velvet drapes opening onto manicured gardens below. Tapestries depicting pastoral scenes adorned the side walls, but there were none of hunting or other violent pursuits. Two enormous gilt mirrors flanked the walls on either side of the entrance.
At least twenty people were present, in remarkable variety even by Valois standards. Even more remarkable was that the room held no throne. Queen Marguerite sat in a large cushioned chair, only slightly more opulent than those of her guests.
The queen both resembled her brother and at the same time was completely different. She was large like François, but delicate where he was burly. She featured the Valois nose, long chin, and small eyes, but the angles had somehow softened, rendering the queen, if not beautiful, certainly pleasing to look at. She exuded the same aura of authority but was inviting rather than commanding. Well past forty, her face seemed unlined, with a placidity almost ethereal. Her courtiers did not seem like courtiers at all, but rather friends who had gathered for an afternoon of pleasant society. Even the servants standing against the wall seemed relaxed. Many of those in the room were speaking among themselves, some enthusiastically so, but Amaury had never been in a room that exuded such a sense of peace.
Queen Marguerite wore no frills or other finery, but rather a plain black silk dress with a thin black scarf as head covering. She raised her gaze to him and smiled—a shy smile, yet totally welcoming—and thenbade him, with the smallest curl of her fingers, to enter and approach. Amaury bowed and walked lightly across the floor.
As he neared her, Amaury attracted the notice of a pinched, malignant-looking man of about forty clad in a worn and grimy cloak, hatless, and slouched in a cushioned chair, his torn shoes resting on a marble-topped table. Obviously, this man had chosen to ignore the queen’s admonitions pertaining to personal hygiene.
“Now there is a pious young lad,” the man intoned, but with obvious sarcasm. “How could he be otherwise in such understated dress?”
Amaury stopped in his tracks.
“Don’t mind Rabelais,” smiled an older man wearing a simple cloak, sitting close to the queen. “He is always misanthropic late in the day.”
“Nonsense. I am misanthropic all of the time.”
So this was the infamous Rabelais.
“Piety is as a boil, my dear Roussel,” continued the author of the sensational Pantagruel, which had scandalized half of France and left the other half helpless with laughter. “Full, throbbing, and likely to burst forth at any moment with pus and corruption.”
“You are confusing piety with your own personality, François,” Roussel noted calmly. Gérard Roussel had preached a Lutheran sermon to five thousand in the courtyard of the Louvre during François’ absence, then had been forced to flee Paris when the king returned. “Piety is a trait, no better or no worse than the person in whom it resides.”
“As is wit, François,” the queen interjected.
Rabelais did not retreat, even before the queen. “Better sharp wit in a cad than dull wit in a saint,” he said.
The queen allowed a small smile. “There is truth in that,” she agreed. “But we have not greeted our guest. Monsieur Faverges, is it not?”
Amaury dropped to one knee. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Arise. Faverges is in Savoy. Are you from there?”
When Amaury confirmed that he was, the queen looked at him more closely. She lingered on Amaury’s square jaw and hazel eyes. Amaury met her gaze, praying she would not pursue the subject. But the queen merely smiled and moved to a different topic.
“You bring news of Paris, Monsieur Faverges, do you not?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Amaury replied, relieved at the queen’s discretion but still anxious. Others in the group must know his father. Had anyone else guessed?
“The city is at peace?”
“For the moment, Your Majesty.”
“It is my hope that Catholics and Lutherans in France may soon learn to live side by side in harmony. Do you see any progress in that direction?”
“I cannot be certain, Your Majesty. Lutherans and Catholics remain separated and view each other, I’m sorry to say, with antipathy. But there is little outright violence or open persecution.”
“A positive development, as I’m sure you would agree,” Marguerite observed. “I am told that you are late of Montaigu,” she said suddenly. “A rigorous education, is it not?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. Rigorous indeed.”
“The king was persuaded to allow Magister Beda to return to his post as a gesture of goodwill. I advised him against it. Magister Beda is hardly the voice of tolerance that France needs to allow her to access the talents of all her subjects.”
“Magister Beda is old and, I am told, quite ill,” Amaury offered. “Perhaps as he nears deat
h, he will seek reconciliation.”
“Not him,” the queen said tersely. She seemed about to say more when a side door opened and four young women entered.
Amaury felt himself turn to stone. Second into the room was Vivienne. She was arresting, clad in a lace dress of deep blue, a buff silk scarf draped over her head. Her hands were clasped in front of her as she walked, her eyes cast down as if she had just entered a cathedral. She was trying her best to move with ease, but her terror was apparent.
But Vivienne was not the cause of Amaury’s astonishment. Just behind her was another woman, tall and golden haired. Her skin was without blemish and the color of fine linen, her eyes the blue of an autumn sky. She wore an ocher dress and pale green scarf. She appeared to float rather than walk.
Hélène.
“I am told that the two of you know each other,” the queen interjected.
Vivienne looked up, her eyes darting reflexively from Amaury to the queen, but he knew to whom Marguerite was referring.
“One of my very good friends,” Marguerite continued. “She sought the peace of my court two years ago and has been here ever since.”
“Hello, Amaury,” Hélène said softly, stepping around Vivienne. Her diction was perfect and she had the same lilt to her voice that he remembered. Like water in a brook after a spring rain. Vivienne had frozen in place.
Amaury’s head spun from one to the other as if he was at a tennis match. Vivienne, doomed by an accident of birth but righteous and good, and Hélène, who did little with her life except cultivate her beauty. If there were any justice, Vivienne’s nobility would diminish Hélène’s vanity. But the world is unjust and Hélène’s ease among the aristocracy made Vivienne appear as out of place as the poor girl surely felt. A whore in good clothing.
But allure is not determined by virtue. In those few seconds Amaury knew, knew beyond any doubt, that he loved Hélène as much now as he ever had, as much as he had that day in the field. A love that had burned in him, brought him misery. But he would not allow her to know. He would not.
“Hélène,” he said, with a small bow. “You look splendid, although that is hardly a surprise.”
“Thank you, Amaury.” She tilted her head sideways to take him in. “As do you, albeit more than a little uncomfortable in those clothes.”
He lowered his gaze to examine himself once more. “Yes. I feel more as if I should be participating in a tableau vivant than warding off the ripostes of Monsieur Rabelais here.”
“Ah!” interjected Rabelais. “I was mistaken. Not pious at all. He is using me to try and bed her! Ha! Don’t forget droit d’auteur, young man.”
“That is droit de seigneur, Monsieur Rabelais,” Hélène replied in an instant. “And since I was married, it is hardly applicable.”
“Married or not, madame, you are a jewel of Europe. I generally eschew jewels—they don’t suit my idiom—but in your case . . . ”
“In any event,” Hélène interjected, “the custom is reserved for lords, which you, God be praised, are not.”
“If I were, madame, there would not be a virgin left in France, unless she be scabrous or smell like a cow.”
“Speaking of those who smell like cows . . . ” Roussel observed.
“I don’t believe your protection is required, Gérard,” interjected the queen. “My dear Hélène seems to have sufficient sting in her tongue to fend for herself.”
“A jewel with the tongue of a scorpion,” sighed Rabelais. “I may swoon.”
“We should all be so fortunate,” Roussel muttered.
“Calm yourselves,” the queen commanded, but with a smile. “Can we not let Monsieur Faverges renew his acquaintance in peace?”
“‘Was married’?” The words were out of Amaury’s mouth before he could stop them. Vivienne looked briefly from him to Hélène, then averted her eyes. Amaury felt like a scoundrel. But he wanted the answer all the same.
“My husband is dead,” Hélène replied. “He died three years ago in a shipwreck in the Aegean.” She did not exhibit remorse at her widowhood.
“My condolences,” Amaury said, although his insincerity felt transparent.
“I am now free to pass my days with Her Majesty, who was sufficiently gracious to offer me sanctuary.”
“Sanctuary from what?”
Hélène gave him a small smile. Tiny crinkles formed at either corner of her mouth, as they had when she and Amaury were children. “Shall we walk in the gardens and recount our mutual tales?”
“Perhaps later,” Amaury replied. “We have had a long journey and are somewhat fatigued.”
“Bravo!” exulted Rabelais from the side. “Never appear too eager.” He lowered his voice. “That was always my problem.”
“Your problem, François,” rejoined the queen, “is that the only women who can bear you are paid for their endurance.”
By reflex, Amaury glanced to Vivienne. Her expression remained as before, but he knew she must have been using all her strength to keep from running from the room. He felt for her, but his eyes immediately returned to Hélène.
“Later, then,” she said with a small, grave smile. “I’m eager to hear of the years since we last met.”
“Of course,” Amaury replied, bowing once more. “Although there is little of interest to tell. I fear you would be bored.”
XX
AMAURY REMAINED for another hour. Conversation swirled about him. He should have been listening, he knew, trying to pick up some snippet of conversation that would help him proceed, but he heard almost nothing. Instead he participated mechanically, his eyes always returning to the same spot, a divan against the far wall.
Hélène. Like a sorceress. Brought to Nérac to unnerve and destroy him. Amaury resolved with all his strength that he would not allow her to do it again.
Eventually, Castell’buono entered. He was obviously well-known and well regarded. Even Rabelais greeted him warmly. As he made his way across the room, he stopped to greet Hélène. The Italian spoke with his back turned to him, but Amaury was certain that he was the subject. Before moving on, Castell’buono glanced briefly his way, smiled, and gave one small nod.
Amaury ignored some question or other about Paris as he watched Castell’buono move to Vivienne. She was surrounded by three young courtiers, but the Italian squeezed his way in to sit next to her. He spoke with his usual animation, eliciting smiles and laughter from all. Amaury felt himself redden as he watched Vivienne take in the Italian’s chatter with obvious enjoyment. After a few moments, Amaury felt eyes on him. He turned to see Hélène staring from across the room. When their eyes met, she excused herself from those with whom she was sitting, rose, and made her exit. She did not look at him again.
Amaury left soon afterward. He looked toward Vivienne, but she seemed to be at ease speaking with the courtiers. The Italian had vanished. When Amaury returned to his room to dress for dinner, however, Casteirbuono was waiting just outside the door. He motioned that they should speak inside.
“Well, Faverges,” he began, effusive as always, “beautiful women seem irresistibly drawn to you. Perhaps you might share your secret.”
“My lady and I are old friends,” Amaury mumbled. “We knew each other as children in Savoy.”
“I was told she seemed to give you quite a jolt.”
Had he been that obvious? “I was surprised to see her. That’s all.” “And the other one. Vivienne . . . d’Arras?”
“She was remarkable on the journey. I would not have made it here without her.”
“You have feelings for her then?”
“Of course. How could I not?”
Castell’buono sighed. “That means no. Just as well. She would complicate your life terribly.”
“I appreciate your concern, but I’m sure you have more pressing issues on your mind.”
“Yes. That’s true. I wanted first to thank you once more for the enormous service you did us. The risks you undertook were not in vain. The correspon
dence you brought held some invaluable information.”
“I’m gratified to have been of service.”
“Aren’t you curious what it contained?”
“Of course. But the essence of secrets is that they are not shared.” “Well, I’ll share this much with you. Our brothers in Paris have concluded that Henri Routbourg’s assassination is proof that the Inquisition has succeeded in planting a spy among us. Do you agree?”
“I’m hardly in a position to agree or disagree,” Amaury replied. “Although Giles Fabrizy’s killing would certainly indicate that some mischief is afoot.”
“You do not believe the murder of Fabrizy was the by-product of a robbery?”
“No.”
“Nor do I. He was killed for his political activities. Of that I am certain. Perhaps you would be kind enough to share with me in more detail what you know of both deaths? Also a fuller explanation of how you came to be here.”
Amaury again recounted the tale of his dismissal from Montaigu, Routbourg’s murder, and its aftermath. He was certain to make the second narration factually identical to the first. Castell’buono would be listening for inconsistencies. But he took equal care not to use the same phrasing, so it did not appear as if he were giving a recitation. Amaury claimed no real knowledge of the circumstances of Giles’ murder, except to repeat that it could hardly have been a coincidence. Through it all, Castell’buono listened carefully, occasionally wrinkling his brow, but not otherwise giving any indication whether or not he believed the account. When Amaury had finished, the Italian reached out and patted him on the shoulder.
“You were indeed fortunate to have been too fatigued to see Henri home. If you had been more energetic, we likely would not have met.”
Amaury didn’t reply.
“Faverges,” the Italian went on, “you seem to be a smart fellow. Where would you look for Ory’s agent?”
“Among your hierarchy.”
“I agree. Here?”
“There is no way for me to venture an opinion on that.”
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