“Why? What happened?”
“It began soon after you left. As you know, your father had accepted a proposal on my behalf from Duke Joseph of Austria. It was an excellent match for Savoy and it gave Joseph’s father a Catholic ally buffering France.”
“Yes,” Amaury replied. “Your betrothal to that fool was why I left.”
“I thought your father banished you.”
“Only from court. After the affair with the Hungarian. When you refused to look at me.”
“I didn’t refuse, Amaury. I was afraid to. Afraid that if I looked at you even for a second, I would have run to you. If that happened . . . a marriageable maid, a political bargaining tool, in love with a—”
“Bastard.”
“Yes. Your father would have been furious. And he would have blamed you. I wasn’t certain that even your life would not have been at risk.”
“Yes,” he conceded. “I suppose you were right. Ironic, though. When I told him that I had chosen to attend university in Paris, he was actually pleased with me. For once. He told me that if I completed study at Montaigu, he would petition the pope for a decree of legitimacy. I would finally be Amaury de Savoie. Of course, by that time, Amaury de Savoie would have no opportunity with Hélène d’Artigny. You would be with another.”
“But surely you knew I had no say in his decision?”
“You didn’t seem displeased by it.”
“Whether I was pleased or displeased was of no concern to anyone. I would eventually be betrothed to someone. Even legitimate, marriage to you would have been out of the question.”
“Awareness that a phenomenon exists and experiencing it are two very different things.”
“Perhaps. In any case, I was actually relieved at the match. Vienna is a fine city and Joseph was two years my senior with a reputation for piety and bravery.”
“An inane dimwit.”
Hélène smiled. “That he was. But, as I learned, there are traits far worse. You see, I never married Joseph. At the last minute, his father sent word that he had withdrawn his approval. He claimed the dowry was insufficient, or some such nonsense, but, in truth, he had turned his attention east and had betrothed Joseph in secret to Princess Elisabeth of Poland.”
“Withdrew? One can’t simply withdraw from a betrothal. The scandal must have been immense. How is it that I didn’t hear of it, even in Paris?”
“There was no scandal. Joseph’s father sent five thousand gold florins to your father to ensure that there would be no scandal.”
“And my father accepted? He allowed you to be dishonored? He couldn’t have. Not even him. There must have been more to it.”
“There was no more. Of that I can assure you. But don’t judge him harshly on that account. He had no choice. Joseph’s father contacted François and agreed to sign a pact pledging mutual support against the Emperor Charles if François would agree to support the Polish union. François thus gained a buffer against Charles in Germany, and Joseph’s father achieved the same end as if he’d married his son to me. If your father opposed them, he’d have been squeezed between two new enemies.”
“What of you, then?” Amaury asked. “Whom did you marry?”
Hélène scowled. “A monster . . . although no one suspected so at the time. Your father had to find someone for me quickly, you see, and Wilhelm of Mainz, old Frederick’s son, was available. A staunch Catholic, of course. After the wedding, I soon found out why he was available.”
Amaury waited.
“He didn’t prefer me,” she said. “He preferred his servant. All of his attendants were young, handsome boys. One was only twelve. After we had consummated the union, except for rare occasions when Wilhelm was too drunk to care that a woman was his bedmate, we had a marriage in name only.” A small, sarcastic smile crossed her lips. “He was, however, quite intelligent.”
“I’m so sorry, Hélène. I’ve spent more than a few hours cursing my fate, but yours was so much worse.”
“It was glorious to see you, Amaury. When that girl, Vivienne, mentioned the name of her traveling companion, I thought I must be hearing spirits. I’ve never stopped thinking of you, of what our lives would have been like if we were together.”
“And now we are.”
“Yes. Now we are. God has finally used circumstance to reward me.”
“You really remember that day in the field?”
“Oh, yes. And you see now that I was correct. I always do get what I want in the end. Although it took a bit more time than I anticipated.”
“Thank God for your perseverance.”
“Yes. Even better, I am now a rich, childless widow. Frederick paid me, quite handsomely, not to discuss his son’s . . . proclivities. Wilhelm was good for that, anyway. Since I am no longer suitable as a strategic pawn, I can do as I please.”
“And your pleasure is to bribe guards, conduct jailbreaks, and involve yourself in an intrigue that might well cost you your life.”
“Precisely. All those are indeed my pleasure. As are some other things when all of this is done.”
XXXII
The Royal Château, Amboise, March 10, 1534
USING ONLY THUMB and forefinger, François soundlessly pulled back the duvet. She didn’t stir. He had always been proud that, for so large and virile a man, he could move with extreme delicacy if he chose.
Extending the same forefinger, he very softly touched her right nipple. It immediately began to shrivel to erectness. She emitted a soft murmur but did not awaken. François smiled and brushed the golden hair from the side of her face. Marie-Ange. Perfectly named. Innocent and beautiful. Until aroused, that is. Then she became Marie-Tigre. Only the second time he had bedded the daughter of a previous mistress. He had wanted her for years. Only with royal fortitude had he forced himself to wait until she was sixteen.
He touched her nipple again, this time with just a soupçon more pressure. She began to stir. François shifted as the royal member began to make itself felt. With the ends of three fingers, he stroked the pale flesh of her breast, tracing a circle about the now fully erect nipple. Her eyes opened. Still, largely asleep, she nonetheless looked up with adoration at her liege.
She was perhaps the most instinctive lover he had ever had. She knew just what he wanted. After only the briefest touch on the back of her head, she smiled and pushed the duvet below his knees. She placed a hand on his chest, pushing him back against the pillows. Throwing back her hair to keep it out of her face, she slid down on the bed. She grasped his erect penis and gave the smallest squeeze. François felt the breath shoot out of him. Then, without uttering a sound, she leaned down and took him into her mouth.
François lay back and closed his eyes.
How wonderful to be king.
After Marie-Ange had finished and they had lain together for the appropriate time, François rang for the servants. It would not do to loll away the day, and preparations must be made to leave Amboise for Paris two days hence. Marie-Ange would not accompany him. Just as well. He realized with a mixture of wonder and fear that he might actually be falling in love with her. Such a loss of emotional control could cause no shortage of unfortunate complications at court. Better that she be here waiting for his next visit.
The door still had not opened and François began to feel a rush of annoyance. It could not be because of sensitivity to the girl. Marie-Ange occupied the king’s bed with brazen pride. Occasionally she had even left the bed naked just to show the servants what the king had and they didn’t.
François rang once more. Finally, the door opened slowly. André de Dauphiny stepped in. He was in his seventies, and his presence in the bedchamber meant bad news. How irritating to follow Marie-Ange with unpleasantness.
André stood just inside the door, a look of terror on his face. Was it war? Had Charles invaded? An alliance with Henry? André cocked his head slightly to the side and François noticed that a placard had been nailed to his door. He donned a robe—how extraordinary to
dress himself—then got out of bed to see what it was.
At the title alone, François felt his blood boil. Articles véritables sur les horribles, grands & importables abuz de la Messe papalle. “True Articles on the Horrible, Great & Insufferable Abuses of the Papal Mass.”
What followed was a four-point indictment of the Mass—vile, despicable, and heretical. André and the other servants stood to the side, cringing as François read. The king was so furious that he quaked. Those among the servants who had questioned the king’s devotion to the True Church questioned no more.
In truth, while François found the language harsh and offensive, the bulk of his anger was directed in a different direction. Who in the kingdom would have the gall, the temerity, to violate the sanctity of the royal apartments? His royal apartments. At the very moment Marie-Ange was providing her service to the sovereign of France, some sniveling coward was skulking about with his vile placard.
François made his decision right there. Standing in his robe. France would remain Catholic. The Lutherans would be exterminated.
He whirled on the servants. Get everything in readiness, he ordered them. The royal procession would leave for Paris in two hours. After the servants had hurried off to try to complete the impossible, François summoned the captain of the guard. Every Lutheran in the château was to be questioned. No measure would be deemed too severe to elicit information on this hideous plot against the royal person. If the culprit was found, he was to be transported to Paris. He would pay for his perfidy there.
On his return, he would summon Ory. Every Lutheran in Paris would pay as well.
XXXIII
AMAURY AND HÉLÈNE reached Bergerac at dawn. He had told her of his discovery and the need to intercept Vivienne. Stopping in Bergerac meant not only risking exposure but the loss of a day. Hélène agreed immediately that they should press ahead.
At the junction just past the town, Amaury started north, to the Angouleme road. Hélène reined in her horse.
“We can’t go that way,” she said. “It’s longer.”
“I must intercept Castell’buono,” Amaury replied. “We’ll make up the time.”
But Hélène was adamant. “It isn’t possible. Angouleme is the queen’s home, and a good deal of commerce passes from there to Nérac. The road is heavily patrolled. You will be a wanted man among Queen Marguerite’s supporters as well as by the Inquisition. You will not do Castell’buono any good—or yourself—if you are arrested.”
“I’ve got no choice. I’m responsible for him being denounced.”
“That’s absurd, Amaury. Castell’buono made his own decisions. You are no more responsible for him being denounced than you are for the sun moving across the sky simply because you stand under it.”
“If he returns to the palace, he’ll probably be thrown into that same pit you just got me out of.”
“He took that risk when he joined his conspiracy. Willingly, I might add. And besides, overtaking that girl’s party will be difficult enough without detours. Perhaps his acolyte will find some means to post a warning.”
“Sévrier? Perhaps.” Amaury brought his horse close to hers. “I had no idea, Hélène, you’d become so . . . ” He searched for the correct word.
“Ruthless?” she said. “Heartless?”
“Resourceful,” he countered weakly.
“I’m merely practical. I have become so by necessity, as you have. If we choose to try to aid Castell’buono, we will fail, and in doing so, will also fail to prevent the girl from reaching Ory. Castell’buono’s mission was to see to the publication of the astronomical work. The best you can do for him is to help bring that goal to fruition.”
“So Castell’buono must be left to his fate?”
“And his faith.” Hélène reined her horse to the other road at the junction. “This is the way we must go. I know a route. Every minute we remain here is time lost.”
Hélène started up the road. Amaury glanced once to the Angouleme road, then followed. He watched Hélène ride ahead, never looking back. The butterfly he had known at his father’s court had grown a core of iron.
Soon afterward she turned onto a side road, little more than a path through the woods. They traveled there most of the day, passing through mile after mile of unbroken forest, until finally they emerged near Périgueux in the Dordogne. Périgueux would be a perfect stopover: popular with aristocrats and wealthy bourgeoisie, the town and its outskirts were dotted with large, recently constructed châteaux. Catholics and Lutherans shared the region with the unspoken truce that the wealthy often adopt so that neither politics nor religion intrude on the pleasures of affluence. No one would suspect a well-spoken, well-dressed couple with money to spend who wished a room and no questions.
They arrived in late afternoon and easily found an inn at the north edge of the town. They were given a large room facing the rear. The magnificent Château de Beynac loomed across the river. Amaury waited in the room while Hélène visited the town apothecary. She returned with a stoppered bottle of bitter lupines boiled in vinegar.
Amaury paid the innkeeper five silver francs to prepare a bath. Périgueux was one of the few towns in France where such a request would arouse no surprise. The innkeeper had prepared a room in an outbuilding for just such extravagances. The cistern was not as large or grand as in Nérac, nor the bath itself as sumptuous, but to Amaury the warm water would be paradise.
Before he stepped in, he rubbed the lupines-vinegar mixture thoroughly through his hair, both at the scalp and, very delicately, the genitals. The soreness there had almost disappeared. He stepped into the bath, lowered himself. The pain in his shoulders too had become only a dull throb. He luxuriated in the water, letting the vestiges of the dungeon wash off him. His foot stung where the rat had attacked, but even that was healing with no sign of sepsis. He lolled in the bath for almost half an hour. When he finally stood and undid the drain, he watched filth and dead insects run down the pipe and into the ditch behind the building. He left the clothing for the innkeeper and donned a change that he had removed from the panniers. He had chosen a more opulent ensemble. With a sword strapped at his side, for the first time in nine years he would appear as a member of the nobility. He had been fairly adept with the weapon as a boy, but what if he actually had to use it now? He would know soon enough. Then, feeling reborn, he returned to Hélène.
She smiled broadly when he entered the room. “A transformation worthy of a conjurer.” She motioned for him to drop the bolt on the door. “Dinner isn’t for an hour.”
Perfection was God’s hallmark. Perfection in all things. In His power, in His wisdom, in His mercy. And in His creation of the heavens. How, then, could a faithful servant produce a description of God’s wonder that was not itself perfect?
He had received surprising encouragement from the small distribution of his manuscript. He had been gratified to hear that a cardinal said to have the ear of the Holy Father himself had urged that the full dissertation be published. This cardinal had acknowledged with sadness, however, that De revolutionibus could not receive an imprimatur from Rome. Opposition in conservative quarters remained ferocious. Still, he had issued assurances that the treatise would not be officially condemned.
More disturbing was that two copies had, by some skullduggery, the details of which remained unclear, fallen into Lutheran hands. Despite their proclamations of tolerance, these self-styled “reformers” had shown themselves to be far less open-minded than some members of the True Church. Luther himself was rumored to have privately condemned the theory.
Self-delusion was pointless. Publication would create outrage among both sects sufficient to prompt attempts at suppression and murder. But that was one advantage of old age. The threat of death loses intensity when life expectancy grows precipitously short.
But completeness of the theory itself. Its perfection. That was a different matter entirely.
He must continue to wor, even as his powers diminished and his e
nergy flagged. God had charged him with elucidating this great truth to Man. Its beauty. Its elegance. Its Divine inspiration. Once the enlightened studied the observations and the calculations as he had, opposition would melt away.
But only if his manuscript was perfect.
Until then, he would publish nothing.
XXXIV
Orsay, March 14, 1534
SIX DAYS IN PURSUIT. Vivienne had come to be an image in the mist, so close as to touch but, when grasped for, always just out of reach. At each stop, Amaury’s inquiries had yielded ever more promising information. Yes, the woman with the soldiers had been through, but she had left half a day before. Nine hours before. Six hours. Three.
At one point, riding in a downpour east of Nogent-le-Phaye, near Chartres, Amaury had been certain that he had seen the party on a hill across a river. Just a blur in the rain, but the woman’s form was distinct among the men. But when he and Hélène made to follow, they discovered the old wooden bridge had been washed away. The river was running fast in the storm, so they had lost an hour finding a place to ford. When they were finally across, Vivienne had disappeared.
But seeing her had made Amaury wonder. What would he do, even if they ran her down? He might be a match for one soldier, even two if his skills with a sword had not eroded too badly, but certainly not six. Vivienne would be alone at night, however. Perhaps he could enter her room without being detected. But then what? Reason with her? She was convinced serving Ory was her salvation. If she refused to reconsider her betrayal, could he really silence her, no matter how great the cause? Strangle her? Smother her? Plunge his dagger into her flesh? Had he become that “practical”? Simple to convince himself, with Vivienne somewhere ahead of him on the road to Paris, that he would be willing to take any action necessary to prevent her from giving the manuscript to Ory and telling the Inquisitor what she knew. But in truth he would know his true capabilities only at the moment of opportunity.
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