Amaury looked to Hélène. She was staring at the carcass calmly, dispassionately considering, it seemed, how close the beast had come to bowling over her horse.
The guards calmly removed their weapons. They would stop at the next hut, they said, and inform the family of the dead boar. The meat and hide would be a treasure to a poor family.
They came upon a woodcutter a few miles up the road. The man, grizzled and bent at forty, was, as the guards predicted, overjoyed at the prospect of fresh meat. He dispatched three of his sons and two daughters to clean the animal of everything useful.
At the woodcutter’s insistence, Amaury and Hélène spent that night in the family’s home, a low, sprawling hut fashioned of logs, mud, and thatch.
The woodcutter’s family lived in extreme poverty. They all slept in a common room, sharing the space undercover with their livestock. They subsisted on onions, turnips, other odd roots, and, when such bounty as the boar was not available, whatever meat they could trap, rabbits or badgers.
The woodcutter’s wife, drawn and gray, although likely younger than her husband, cooked the boar in a stew that boiled in a cauldron set on a hook in the fireplace. She served Amaury first, then Hélène. One of her daughters brought portions to the guards, who had remained outside. Only after Amaury and Hélène had begun did the family eat.
The meal was surprisingly tasty, thick and rich, with a smoky flavor that was quite satisfying. Hélène thanked the woman in German, evoking a smile that revealed more than a few missing teeth. After the meal, Hélène moved to the corner near the fire, the most comfortable spot in the hut, where the woodcutter had insisted that they sleep. The youngest of the woodcutter’s children, a boy less than a year old, stared at her. Hélène screwed up her face. The boy laughed. She made a sad face. He began to gawk. Soon she was passing her hand up and down in front of her face, changing from frown to smile on the way up, and smile to frown on the way down. The boy began to giggle uncontrollably. Soon the other children were laughing as well, and then their parents.
Later, as Amaury and Hélène lay under their bearskin, she whispered, “My father always did that when I was a little girl.”
As they neared the Elbe, the forest dropped away and they were once more able to pass the night at inns. At Dömitz, they lost their guards. Amaury and Hélène bade them farewell with genuine affection. Hélène tried to give the two an extra gold piece in appreciation. They refused initially, saying they were honored to serve her, but Hélène forced it on them. They finally accepted, becoming halting and shy in trying to thank her.
They engaged two different guards, bored fellows who did their job without zest or flair, and set off for Poland. It turned out to be the worst part of the journey. For days they rode through a dull drizzle. The forests were thick but not inviting; the towns plentiful, but without charm; the people distrustful, unlearned, and superstitious.
Finally, they passed into Poland with hopes that their circumstances would improve. Instead, they worsened.
In West Pomerania, northeast of Walcz, they encountered local soldiers blocking the road. Ahead, the soldiers informed them, was a plague town. No one was allowed to proceed on the road. But to avoid the town meant a two-day detour. Two days lost while Liebfreund and his band of assassins drew ever nearer to Frauenburg. But to pass through a town infested with plague was considered madness. An enormous risk either way.
Amaury drew Hélène aside. “I can’t afford to lose the time. The astronomer will certainly be dead by the time we arrive. I intend to ride through. You can wait for me, or the guards can escort you the long way.”
“I go where you go. If you are safe, I will be safe. If you die, I will die as well.”
“Very well. This is what we’ll do. The rogue physician Paracelsus has insisted that disease isn’t caused by an imbalance in the humors, as Aristotle postulated, but rather by impurities in the earth, water, or air. Or perhaps by tiny living creatures too small to be seen by the eye of man. If Paracelsus is correct, you and I can wear scarves over our noses and mouths, so no impurities in the air can pass through. We will touch nothing as we ride, not even brush against a tree. I believe if we do that, we will be protected from the disease.”
“We will be safe, Amaury. I’m sure of it. Now go speak to the guards.”
Amaury asked the soldiers if they might pass at their own risk. They refused. He took one of them aside and pressed three silver coins into his hand. They were on an errand of great urgency, he told the man. He was a physician and could assure the soldier that he knew how to avoid contracting the disease. The soldier appeared dubious but was loath to refuse the bribe. He pocketed the coins, then looked back to Hélène and asked if Amaury intended to take her. My wife goes where I go, Amaury told him. The soldier was appalled. Finally he said that anyone who wished to contract plague was free to do so. Patting his hand on the pocket of his tunic, he told his fellows to let Amaury and Hélène proceed.
Their guards refused to go. No amount of payment or assurances of safety could persuade them to change their minds. Once through the town, Amaury and Hélène would thus be forced to complete the journey to Elbing alone. Fortunately, they were only two days away, and the presence of plague would keep the roads clear for a good bit of the journey. Bandits had no more desire to die of the dreaded disease than anyone else.
Amaury and Hélène fastened scarves tightly over their faces and rode ahead.
The town appeared as if God himself had taken vengeance. Bodies of the dead, animal and human, bloated and blackened, lay in the streets, in the entrances to buildings, and especially in a pond to the left of the main road, which had apparently been employed as an impromptu morgue. No living creatures could be seen, but a cough or a moan occasionally escaped one of the buildings. A number of the structures had been burned out, as if the remaining residents had hoped that fire would purify the dead and save the living.
The smell became so powerful that even the scarves provided little relief. They rode at an even pace, looking forward. If Paracelsus had been wrong, they would be doomed to die horribly. They might even infect others to share their fate. But Paracelsus had not been wrong. Amaury was certain. Aristotle’s prevailing theories of disease were as obsolete as his prevailing theories of astronomy. He and Hélène would be safe. Science would save them.
Once through the town, they encountered another party of soldiers on the road. The men drew back, stupefied, at the sight of two riders emerging form the holocaust. More silver coins were required to secure passage, as well as instructions from Amaury on how to avoid infection. The soldiers crossed themselves as Amaury and Hélène rode on.
One day later, a storm struck, violent and powerful, borne on a wind out of the north and east that carried with it a stinging, icy rain.
XLIV
A MAURY AND HÉLÈNE were now sufficiently close to the coast that any storm that had broken on them had also struck on the Ostsee, what in France was known as the Mer Baltique. Amaury was therefore exultant to feel the wind and rain pelting his face. The wind would also be in the face of any craft attempting to move east. One night in Elbing, then on to their destination.
Elbing was a star-shaped city, modern by eastern standards, protected by inner and outer walls and a moat fed by the river it straddled. A large cathedral dominated its center. The river, also called the Elbing, fed the Frisches Haff—“fresh lake” in German—a virtually enclosed lagoon on which, to the north and east, sat Frauenburg.
Although now within the Polish kingdom, Elbing had been a part of the Order of Teutonic Knights, and thus most of the citizenry still communicated in German. Hélène had no difficulty obtaining directions to an inn gastfreundlich—hospitable—that catered to the upper classes. They were greeted at the door by a scowling woman as dirty as they were, almost as pungent as the wet wool of their cloaks. She guided them up a set of stairs to a room that would have been sneeringly dismissed by a vegetable merchant in Paris. The woman stood in the
doorway for a moment then started to leave before Amaury stopped her.
“Tell her we each require a bath,” he told Hélène.
“Wir wollen jedem Bad,” Hélène said to the woman.
The woman stiffened as if she had been told Amaury had horns and a tail. “Bittet” she asked.
Hélène repeated the sentence, enunciating each word carefully.
“Italiener” she asked. “Italians?”
“Französisch,” Hélène replied. “French.”
The woman shook her head in wonder. There were no facilities for bathing at the inn, she told them, but her husband could arrange to bring buckets of water warmed by the large fire in the kitchen.
“That will have to do, I suppose,” Amaury conceded. “Ask her if she has any soap.”
The woman didn’t, but agreed to fetch some at the apothecary. Amaury thanked her and gave her some coins, which, from the woman’s expression, was more than enough for the room, the food, the bath, and even the trip in the rain to the apothecary.
It took more than an hour and nine buckets of warm water before Amaury and Hélène had cleaned themselves. The soap had been coarse and caustic but left the skin tingling. It was not Nérac, but at least most of the grime had been deposited in the buckets and sent out the rear of the inn.
When the last of them had been handed out and hauled away, Amaury and Hélène moved to the fire to dry themselves. They sat on the floor wrapped in bearskin, feeling the heat pour out of the hearth, allowing themselves to be entranced by the flickering light. At the same moment, each turned to face the other.
“I have loved you from the first moment I saw you,” Amaury told her.
“And I you.”
“I’m more content sleeping in the woods with you than if I were sitting on the throne of Savoy. More than if I were king.”
She slid closer to him until their shoulders touched. “I’ve spent my life trying to find things to make up for being so desperately unhappy. Now I need only you.”
“We will come through this, Hélène. I cant believe God has finally brought us together only to tear us apart once more.”
“No God would be so cruel.” She moved around him so that their faces were inches apart. “I love you, Amaury.”
They kissed and fell into each others arms, then made love in front of the fire, suspended, for those moments, in time and space.
When they finally went downstairs and presented themselves for dinner, everyone—innkeeper, servants, and the six other guests—stared at these French with their foolish obsession with cleanliness. To Amaury and Hélène, their fellow guests were more suited to a barn than an inn. They were surprised, then, to learn that one of the men was a minor noble and another a steward to the local count.
The food, however, was a pleasant surprise, a stew rich with turnips and perfectly cooked pork. The wine was passable. As the only foreigners at the table, a man and woman traveling without escort or servants, they were an object of curiosity.
“We are heading to Frauenburg,” Hélène told them finally. She had not wanted to reveal anything of their plans, but the questions would not stop.
“Ah!” said the steward. “To visit the cathedral. A stunning Gothic structure. Three centuries old. Well worth the trip.”
“No, no,” grunted another, a massive man with an equally massive wart on his forehead. “I’II warrant they’re on their way to visit the mad canon.” His lifted his rheumy eyes to theirs. “Right?”
Hélène glanced to Amaury who, while unable to understand the man, understood the challenge of the expression. She did not reply to the question but instead returned to her food.
“He seems very popular these days with you people,” the man went on.
“You people?” Hélène asked.
“French.”
“And why popular?”
“Just yesterday another man was asking about him. Skinny fellow. Came off a boat. Heading to the Frisches Haff. Only spoke French. Had to find someone to translate. Didn’t ask for a bath, though.” The man chuckled at his wit. “I told him that overland was faster from here, but he insisted on the boat. Didn’t seem like the type to visit the crazy old hermit, but you never know.”
Hélène translated for Amaury. The noble obviously spoke French as well, because he listened attentively and became even more attentive when Amaury reacted with alarm.
“Pas un de vos amis?” the noble asked Amaury. “Not a friend of yours?”
Amaury considered whether or not to reveal the threat to the astronomer’s life. If he did, how would it be received? With outrage and offers to help to protect a respected local citizen? Or suspicion and xenophobia, causing Amaury and Hélène to be detained whilst their story was checked? A delay that could result in the very outcome they had traveled three weeks to prevent?
“I cannot claim friendship or enmity with someone I do not know, monsieur,” Amaury replied.
He and Hélène tarried a few more minutes at the dinner table, then excused themselves. As soon as they were clear of the room, he whispered to her, “We must leave now.”
“Yes,” she replied. “I know.”
Back in their room, they dressed as warmly as they could, ready for a night ride in rain and wind. At least they would ride unmolested. No bandit would waste his time venturing out on such a night.
When they went downstairs, the innkeeper’s wife was puttering about. “You are leaving now? In this storm?”
“Yes, madame,” Hélène told her. “We will return in two days.” She paid the woman, once again far more than two days’ board would require.
The woman stood watching as Amaury and Hélène walked out the door. At the stables, they retrieved their possessions. The wind had picked up. The rain was coming in sheets. Hélène donned her second cloak and wrapped herself tightly.
Then they climbed aboard their mounts and set out.
XLV
THEY REACHED FRAUENBURG BY MIDAFTERNOON. The rain had largely ceased, although the east wind was still sufficient to make their eyes water and their sodden cloaks flap about their legs. Their destination had been visible for miles, a hill atop which sat a large cathedral with an even taller belfry nearby. As they drew nearer, they saw that the cathedral was on the north wall of a fortified complex of buildings and towers. It faced the bay, what the man at the inn had called the Frisches Haff.Thc belfry was at the southwest corner. The entire castle, walls, buildings, cathedral, and belfry were fashioned of red brick with roofs of terracotta tiles. Somewhere inside was either the astronomer or his corpse.
The main entrance was on the south wall, a gate that passed through the center of a four-story building with turrets on either side. There was no portcullis, or even a door, but merely a passage under an archway that led into a large courtyard. Amaury and Hélène rode over the bridge that spanned a deep ditch and requested entrance from an acolyte of perhaps fifteen who was posted at the entrance.
The boy asked their business, speaking in German. Amaury told him in Latin that they had come to see Canon Copernici. The boy told them the canon went by his Latinized name, Copernicus, and asked if they were expected. Amaury replied that they were not but had arrived bearing an urgent message from Paris.
The boy directed them across the courtyard to a three-story tower at the northwest corner of the castle and informed them that the canon lived there. Amaury asked if anyone else had visited the canon in the past day. The boy replied that no one had. Of course, the assassins might have come and gone without alerting anyone to their presence.
They rode across the courtyard, the wind whistling within the enclosed space and sending ripples across the puddles. The oaken door to the tower was old and the metalwork pitted with rust. Forcing the door open with a metal bar would not be difficult.
Amaury rapped twice with the large knocker. At first there was no sign that anyone had heard, but eventually the door was swung partially open by a grizzled old man with a few straggly white hairs growin
g out of an otherwise bare pate. He looked them up and down and asked what they were doing there. He spoke in Latin. His manner was anything but cordial.
“We have come to see the canon,” Amaury replied, hoping desperately that this crusty old curmudgeon was not himself the object of their quest.
“Canon Copernicus sees no one after the dinner hour,” the servant grunted and began to close the door.
Amaury shot his hand to the door to hold it open. The ancien was not capable of exerting much pressure, and so released his grip. “Our message is quite urgent,” Amaury said coldly. “If you don’t let us in, you might not much longer have a canon to serve.”
The servant considered this for a moment, then told them to wait while he checked. He did not invite them inside to escape the wind. Amaury and Hélène entered anyway. The old man trudged up a stairway set against the wall. He turned back for a moment, then frowned, shrugged, and kept going until he disappeared around a corner. Eventually, there was the sound of a knock at a door, then the creak of metal hinges. A few minutes later, the man reappeared around the corner of the staircase. Refusing to move any further down the stairs, he bade them come up with one contemptuous flick of his wrist.
Hélène and Amaury looked at one another as they went up the stairs. It had not occurred to either of them that, on an errand to save a man’s life, they would be unwelcome when they arrived.
They reached the landing on the second floor, but the old man was already halfway to the third and beckoned them to continue. At the top of the stairs the old man stopped at a partly opened door. Amaury hesitated, but the man nodded and cocked his head toward the room. It seemed only yesterday that Amaury had been similarly poised on the threshold of Beda’s rooms at Montaigu. But it was a lifetime ago.
The Astronomer Page 26