And if he was to silence her, he would have to perform the act without heat of passion. For, despite the immensity of her crime, Amaury could not feel anger at the poor girl. How could he resent a creature sufficiently credulous to believe she was rendering herself a modern-day saint by causing the horrible death of those who had trusted her? One cannot blame the instrument, only he who wields it.
Nine years at Montaigu inculcated even the most reluctant student with the conviction that a true Christian will die for a cause. But would a true Christian kill for one?
Philippe Sévrier could have answered that question easily. He felt no ambiguity. What he did share with his adversary was frustration. His pursuit of Amaury was as tantalizing as Amaury’s pursuit of Vivienne. He had been certain he would have encountered Faverges and the woman long ago, but the couple was traveling at surprising speed. The woman had evidently not been the burden that he expected. Now, with Paris little more than a day’s ride away, he was running out of time. Once Faverges was inside Paris, he would go directly to Ory. Betrayal, imprisonment, torture, and death would follow.
Philippe wished to survive; martyrdom was for fools. But there were, after all, things to give one’s life for. To stop Faverges, or at least to stop the effects of his treachery—yes, that was one of them.
XXXV
Faubourg Saint-Germain, March 15, 1534
LATE ON THE FOLLOWING DAY, Amaury and Hélène crested a low hill and saw the walls of Paris looming ahead, only ten minutes’ ride, lit by the lowering sun in the western sky. The slate roof of the tower of the great abbey, Saint-Germain-des-Prés, burial place of kings, stood sentinel to the city just to its north, the same massive edifice that had marked the beginning of Amaury’s journey with Vivienne weeks before. The entire length of road leading to the Saint-Germain gate lay before them, and Vivienne and her escort were nowhere in sight. She was, then, already within the city, out of Amaury’s reach, at this moment being shepherded to Ory, soon to betray not only her former friends and comrades, but truth itself.
“I’ve failed,” he muttered in despair.
“We could not have done better,” Hélène told him.
Amaury stared ahead to the city walls. But Ory would require time to complete his victory. The Inquisitor would need to muster his resources before he could act on Vivienne’s information. Amaury could be more direct. If he could warn Broussard, he could at least save his friend. He had little concern for the fate of the others. Justice for Giles.
“It will not be safe for you in the city,” Hélène said, reading his thoughts.
“We won’t be long. I must see someone.”
“Let me go for you. I will be quite safe. My devotion is unquestioned. I can travel freely. And, if there is any difficulty, I will be protected. My uncle is now a cardinal. I can run your errands and you can wait for me outside the gates.”
“Thank you, Hélène, but I must do this myself. Besides, we agreed that we would not be apart again.”
Hélène smiled softly, even shyly, a blush creeping up her neck. “Very well, my darling. We shall bear all risks as one.”
As Amaury and Hélène drew nearer to the city, they were surprised to see that the gates at porte Saint-Germain were closed. A sentry was standing at the end of the bridge on the far side of the ditch that surrounded Paris, to be flooded from the Seine in case of attack. Amaury had a moment’s anxiety that Vivienne’s revelations were the cause of the unusual security. But how? There had not been sufficient time. A different reason must be the cause. A criminal on the loose? Had the Emperor Charles declared war on France?
But whatever the reason, it apparently did not concern them. The sentry immediately waved to a companion looking through a grille inside the walls to open the doors in the gate and allow Amaury and Hélène entrance to the city. But as they started across the bridge, the sentry said, “Hope you aren’t planning on leaving anytime soon. Order of the king. Anyone can enter. No one can leave.”
“The king is here?” Amaury asked.
“Arrived from Amboise yesterday morning.”
Hélène shot Amaury a glance. The sentry noticed and regarded them with suspicion. There was no question of turning back now.
“My wife is upset because we were due at a fête in Rouen,” Amaury said with a shrug. “But any order of His Majesty shall of course be obeyed.”
The sentry cocked his head to the side for a moment, then nodded perfunctorily and waved them through.
“By the way,” Amaury added. “Have you been told the reason for the order?”
The soldier nodded, a smirk forming in the corner of his mouth. “Heretic hunt.”
“Can this be about you?” Hélène asked, just above a whisper, once they had passed through the gate.
“I don’t see how,” Amaury replied softly. “The sentry said the order was from the king, not the Inquisition. I’m not certain why François is back in Paris, but I doubt it concerns me. Still . . . heretic hunt . . . we’ll have to be very alert.”
“I’m afraid for you, Amaury.”
“For me? I should be the one afraid for you. A woman in a situation like this.”
“Yes,” she replied, reaching over and patting his hand. “I’ve been so fragile up to now.” They had paused at the hub of four roads that led to different sections of the city. Except for a gendarme slouched against a wall, the small plaza was quiet. The sun had dropped below the level of the buildings, and flickers of candlelight had begun to appear in some of the windows. The city smelled of tallow and cooking pots. “Where are we headed?”
“La Ville. Near porte Saint-Antoine. The other end of the city, I’m afraid.”
“Why? What’s there?”
“A friend. A bookseller.”
“What does he have to do with the manuscript?”
“Nothing. But he will be condemned, although he’s innocent of any complicity in Giles’ murder. The priest told me. I must try to save him if I can.”
“But it puts you at greater risk.”
“I heeded you about Castell’buono, Hélène. But this is something I must do.”
“Very well, Amaury. Let’s hurry then.”
But instead of heading up rue Serpente, which led to the river, Amaury turned east on rue des Cordeliers.
“Then why this way?” Hélène asked. “Isn’t it longer?”
“Yes. But this road leads to the Sorbonne. There might be fewer soldiers near the university. The king is wary of intruding on the rights of the magisters, even to pursue heretics. We can move more freely and then make our way to Cité through the colleges.” Amaury cast a rueful smile. “As long as I don’t encounter anyone I know.”
They had gotten no more than twenty yards up the street, however, before Amaury questioned the wisdom of his decision. Just ahead of them a door flew open, followed by an old man who been hurled from the inside. The man, whose face was swollen and bruised, crashed to the pavement and could not make it to his feet before a gendarme had burst through the door and grabbed him rudely about the shoulders. The soldier drew back his arm and backhanded the old man across the face, his thick gauntlet cracking like a whip on the man’s cheek. Hélène gasped as a glob of blood and spittle sailed from the man’s mouth.
“So, you want to end the Mass, do you?” the soldier sneered. “Turn France into a nation of the damned?”
A small crowd was quickly gathering, murmuring in anticipation. The prospect of watching a heretic beaten within an inch of his life, or perhaps beyond, was too alluring to ignore. The old man tried to shake his head, to deny the terrible accusation, when the gendarme landed another backhanded blow. Hélène looked to Amaury. The soldier had become aware of being scrutinized from horseback and raised his eyes, glaring at the well-dressed couple, challenging them to question his authority.
Amaury dismounted. “You have proof of this man’s heresy, I suppose.” He spoke with the studied ease of the aristocrat, a manner he had learned watching his father’s courtie
rs cringe at a whisper in Savoy. His hand rested easily on the handle of his sword.
The soldier straightened up, prepared for a confrontation. “And who are you to interfere with the king’s order?”
“Amaury de Savoie. Son of the duke and defender of the True Faith at Collège de Montaigu. And who are you to be dispensing the king’s justice on your own authority?”
“I do as ordered,” the solider replied. He spoke with the growl of a bully but the uncertainty of a lackey. “The edict was to stamp out heresy. This man was denounced by his own landlord.”
Amaury nodded as if to take in the situation. He would be as slow and deliberate as the soldier was instinctive and violent. “Did he owe money to this landlord?” he asked finally.
The soldier’s brow wrinkled. Rather than reply to Amaury, he addressed the old wretch. The man was crumpled at his feet, wheezing, still held by the collar.
The old man nodded weakly. “A month’s rent,” he croaked, almost inaudibly.
The crowd fell silent. Their allegiance began to shift to the pathetic creature on the pavement. Not one of them, Amaury surmised, had not once owed money to his landlord. The soldier sensed the change as well.
“Perhaps further investigation is in order,” he said, glancing to the crowd. Drawn to the bit of theater in the streets, the citizenry had continued to pour forth.
“I agree,” Amaury said. “And if the man is guilty, I suggest you take him to the proper authority and not mete out justice yourself, no matter how tempting.”
The gendarme looked confused. “Has the order been changed? We were told that heretics were to be dealt with on the spot.”
“Of course,” Amaury replied. Could it be true? Could even François have issued such an order? “But only in the case of irrefutable proof.”
The soldier considered the question. Nuanced instructions were a new experience for him. Then a voice came from the crowd. “Let the old man go. It’s the landlord you should be arresting.” A hum of assent rumbled through the crowd.
The gendarme glanced once more at the growing throng, then leaned down and helped the old man to his feet. “All right then, grand-père” he said affably, patting the man softly on the shoulder, “no harm done.” The old man stared at the paving stones, afraid to look up lest it jinx his good fortune.
“I’ll talk to your landlord,” the soldier went on. He smiled, more for the crowd than for the victim. “False accusations of heresy aren’t viewed favorably by His Majesty.”
Amaury had stood solemnly while the scene played out, never cracking the veneer of authoritarian judgment. He paused a few seconds, as if considering the soldier’s performance. Finally, he pursed his lips and nodded off-handedly. The gendarme was relieved and the onlookers grateful. Amaury remounted his horse. The crowd cleared a path and he and Hélène rode through.
“Thank you, Amaury,” she said when they had cleared the crowd.
“I didn’t do it for you, Hélène.”
“All the better then,” she replied.
Philippe Sévrier arrived at porte Saint-Germain thirty minutes after Amaury and Hélène had passed through. Unlike them, he aroused no suspicion from the sentry. In fact, for Philippe, the doors were opened with a flourish. That was because he arrived not as himself but as Frère Jean-Marie.
He had known to adopt the Franciscan facade purely by chance; fortuitous in one sense, regrettable in another. He had sensed the previous day that he was finally about to overtake Faverges and the woman. Just a feeling, but powerful and compelling. He rode hard, stopping in a hay field to sleep only when he feared he would fall from the saddle. At any moment, he was convinced the two would come into view.
Philippe was not aware that he actually had overtaken them. He had chosen a parallel road to that on which Amaury and Hélène were traveling and, in his frantic pursuit, was, in fact, closer to the city than those he sought. Had he simply continued, he would have entered Paris first and been able to lie in wait for his prey. Instead, at a stop at a hosteller’s to water his horse, Philippe chanced to overhear a conversation between two men who had just left Paris. He listened as they talked of the placard tacked to the king’s bedroom door: one of hundreds, as it turned out, nailed to walls, doors, and posts across France. The two men then spoke of the order of the king to exterminate Lutherans, to render France Catholic. Philippe joined the conversation, eventually revealing himself as a reformer. The two men, he learned, were also Lutheran. One was a preacher. Both had been fortunate to escape the city just as the order to close the gates had reached the gendarmerie.
Philippe was left with competing priorities: to pursue the traitors without delay, or to take steps to ensure his ability to move freely within the city. Perhaps, he surmised, he would not overtake Faverges and the woman until they were inside the walls. As a stranger, he would be constantly at risk of being accused of Lutheranism. He would be forced to restrict his movements, avoiding soldiers or crowds. So, eschewing immediate pursuit, Philippe found a greedy tavern owner in Faubourg Saint-Germain to whom to sell his horse, then repaired to a second tavern to shave a tonsure and don the Franciscan cloak that he had taken the precaution of packing.
Once more the pious friar, above suspicion by the detested Catholics, Philippe Sévrier walked to the Saint-Germain gate. As on the night he had followed the courier, Fabrizy, a knife was nestled in the sleeve of his cloak. Assuming his quarry would want to spend as little time inside the walls as possible, Philippe took rue Serpente, the most direct route to the bridges across the Seine. The bookseller’s was the place to begin. There he might at least warn the brethren of the coming betrayal. And if, by some chance, Faverges chose to return to the scene of his treachery, Philippe would be waiting.
XXXVI
FRANÇOIS PLACED THE DRUMSTICK on his plate, raised his right hand to examine his fingers-—long and thin—and then carefully sucked each one clean. Not the best capon he had ever tasted, but serviceable under the circumstances. He couldn’t complain in any event. Not tonight. Tonight was for humility before God. To demonstrate that the catharsis being undertaken in the streets outside these very windows in the Louvre was not for revenge or, even worse, personal pique, but rather to do service to the Lord against those who would defile His Word and His commandments.
The day after tomorrow, just after dawn, he would lead a procession. He would go bareheaded, wearing only a simple black friar’s cloak. He had drawn the line at Beda’s suggestion that he go barefoot as well. It was still winter, after all. Nonetheless, the ridiculous hour and the ludicrous outfit should be sufficient to convince the citizenry of Paris of his sincerity.
He would begin here, at the gates of the palace, then pace solemnly and silently across to Cité and into the vaults of Sainte-Chapelle. There, he would command that the sacred relics be produced—the true Crown of Thorns, a fragment of the Cross, and a piece of Jesus’s robe stained with the Lord’s blood. All purchased three centuries before by his predecessor, Louis IX. Saint Louis. Then flaunted by his beatified predecessor to atone for that disastrous crusade. Knights slaughtered by the thousands, headless bodies left to bleach and dry in the desert. Louis himself had been taken captive; his queen, Marguerite, forced to raise a huge ransom to secure his release. François, from the moment he had become king, was determined never to preside over such a debacle.
Then, at Pavia, in 1525, a mere decade after he had taken the throne, François himself had been taken prisoner. By Charles. A debacle at least as immense as Louis’. Forced also to promise a huge ransom. Then compelled by the detestable Habsburg to offer up his own sons as hostages to assure the ransom was paid. Lord, how he loathed that man. How could an absurdly pious dwarf with the lower jaw of an ape continually outwit him?
Well, no more. What had begun as an act of rage outside his bedroom at Amboise had ripened into a brilliant bit of strategy. The placard that had so fortuitously appeared on his door would now be the instrument to finally best his nemesis.
&n
bsp; François would take the relics from Sainte-Chapelle and walk with them through the streets of Paris. Praising God with every step. The king abasing himself before the power of the Lord. Heretics would be burned, drowned, branded, and impaled throughout the city as he walked. Merciless retribution meted out to a heretical sect. Finally, François would return to Cité and sit for a Holy Mass in Notre Dame. An example of piety unsurpassed. A show of devotion to dwarf . . . the dwarf.
What could the pope do then? The Medici hypocrite. He would be forced to acknowledge François as the epitome of the faith. To favor France and its king. To begin to be pried away from Charles. At least brought to neutrality. François would then assist Henry of England in his never-ending marital difficulties, and Charles, finally, would be out-thought and outflanked.
When he had seen that abominable placard on the door of his bedroom, François had sworn to himself to have its author roasted over a slow fire. No longer. Now the king wished only to embrace him.
XXXVII
AT NIGHT, from a distance, the sights and sounds of horror are discordantly similar to those of celebration. Clumps of men running through the streets, yelling, sometimes cheering; an occasional shriek from an unseen quarter; sparks from torches wafting into the night. Paris might as easily have been celebrating the birthday of the king as murdering its children. As Amaury and Hélène closed in on the university, however, there was little mistaking the nature of events. The shouts bursting spontaneously from side streets and buildings were of anger, not joy; the shrieks were pleas for mercy, not expressions of ecstasy.
Amaury and Hélène could not ride five minutes without encountering a scene that might have been lifted from a painting by the Nederlander Bosch. At one corner, a man was prostrate in the street, kicked at by soldiers, students, and faculty masters, while his two small sons tried desperately to break through to him. On another street, a woman had been stripped of her clothing and was running in desperation, pursued by three soldiers. She was soon caught and dragged into an alley. Bodies littered the streets. Pools of blood lay everywhere. Flames licked out of the shop windows of merchants who had been denounced for Lutheranism. At one intersection, four students sat by a roaring fire, heating irons that would later be used to brand anyone they decided was not Catholic enough.
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