The Astronomer

by Lawrence Goldstone

  The man pushed the door open and walked in. Amaury and Hélène followed. Rather than the ascetic cavern of the Montaigu syndic, this room was open, inviting, and, from the first glance, utterly thrilling. The workplace of a scientist. An eight-foot triquetrum stood in one corner; an armillary, a series of concentric, graduated spheres used for astronomical calculations, in another. A bookshelf stood against the far wall; Amaury wanted to rush across and examine its contents.

  A brightly polished trestle desk sat in front of the bookshelf, facing the door, flanked by two of the windows that ringed the room. Behind the desk sat another old man. He had an elongated face dominated by a large nose and even larger chin. His mouth was taut and straight, his hair gray and uncombed. Bushy white eyebrows overhung tired, deep-set eyes. He slouched in the seat; his breathing was deep and labored. He regarded his two visitors with a mixture of curiosity and irritation.

  “To what do I owe this intrusion?” he asked in Latin, without pleasantries, his voice even and cold.

  “You are Canon Copernicus?”

  The man continued to regard them evenly. “I am Copernicus.”

  “I have read your work,” Amaury said. “Briefly. By candlelight. At the risk of my life. I was stunned and exhilarated.”

  Copernicus tilted his head sideways, unmoved by the flattery. “You are competent to judge?” It was more an accusation than a question.

  “I am”

  “And you are?”

  Amaury told Copernicus his name. The old man responded with a shrug and a shake of the head.

  “And you have come here to praise me, Amaury de Faverges? Challenge me? Bring my work to the world?”

  “No. I have come here to ensure that you are not lost to the world.” Amaury glanced to the man who had let them in.

  “Leave us, Anton,” Copernicus said. “Leave me with these two.” When the door closed, he said to Amaury, “Don’t mind Anton. He sees very well to my needs but has little use for visitors. Nor, I confess, do I.”

  “I would not have come if it were not necessary.”

  “I thought you were thrilled by my work. And exhilarated. Not so thrilled and exhilarated to trudge willingly on to Frauenburg, though, eh? I don’t blame you.”

  “I’m honored to meet you,” Amaury offered.

  Copernicus gestured to Hélène. “And her?”

  “Without her, I would already be dead, and you would be as well, within a day.”

  “All right, young man. I’ll hear your tale, melodramatic though it promises to be.”

  “I will be happy to provide whatever detail you require, but later. For now, suffice to say that a team of assassins has been dispatched from Paris to murder you and destroy your work. They will arrive by boat at any time. I am only grateful that I arrived first.”

  “Assassins? From Paris? You mean Rome, don’t you?”

  “No. Paris.”

  Dispatched by whom?”

  “The Inquisition.”

  “Does the Holy Father know of this supposed plot?”

  “No. Mathieu Ory, the French Inquisitor, acted on his own.”

  Copernicus leaned his elbows on the desk and placed his fingertips together. He spoke patiently, as if addressing a lunatic. “And you came to this information by . . . ”

  “Cardinal d’Aubuisson. Do you know him?”

  “I know the name.”

  “Canon Copernicus, I realize that this all sounds preposterous—”

  “At least you realize it.”

  “—but we’ve been traveling three weeks to warn you. Matters are quite urgent, I can assure you.”

  “Young man, I have been working on my theory for more than twenty years. Our definitions of urgency may well differ.”

  “At least take steps to protect yourself.”

  “Very well. I see there is no dissuading you. I’ll have Anton ride to Elbing in the morning to fetch someone.”

  Amaury walked to the window that faced north over the bay. Three men were moving up the hill from the quay. One small and thin, two large and hulking. They walked astride one another, not speaking. A boat was moored at the end of the quay, larger than the fishing boats that dominated the harbor. Inside the boat, in a darkened cabin, awaiting news of the death of the astronomer, most certainly sat the twisted, charred figure of Johan Liebfreund.

  “There’s no time,” Amaury said to Copernicus. “They’re here.”

  XLVI

  COPERNICUS PUSHED HIMSELF to his feet. He was strained in the movement. “Are you trying to tell me that the men who intend to murder me are strolling up the hill?”

  “Yes. That is exactly what I’m telling you,” Amaury replied. Copernicus was still not convinced that Amaury wasn’t insane, but it wouldn’t do to simply ignore a man who told you that killers were on their way. “Now please, canon, tell me how many ways one can get in here.”

  “Only the door you entered and the door to the battlements, one story down.”

  “Is the battlement door locked?”

  “There is a drop bolt on the inside, like the one on the door you entered.”

  In other words, useless, Amaury thought. “And the entrance to the castle?”

  “Only from the south. The other doors are kept locked.”

  “The cathedral?”

  “All entry is through the courtyard.”

  “Is there anyone here who might help us?”

  Copernicus shook his head. “Only acolytes and servants. The bishop and the other canons are elsewhere. The town is full of eelers and drunks.”

  “I want you to send someone to Elbing immediately for help.” “Anton.”

  “If you must.” Amaury returned to the window for another look. The three had almost reached the small plaza in front of the north wall. Copernicus walked to the door and called for his servant. He moved with the leaden arms and legs of the aged and infirm. Anton was only slightly more spry, but listened to the instructions and then left as quickly as he could.

  “Canon,” Amaury said, “when I leave, I want you to bolt the door.” He gestured to Hélène. “Madame will stay with you. Dont open it again for anyone but me.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I will be in the hall. I’ll try to hold them off. If we can keep them outside, your servant may have time to fetch assistance.”

  “You said there were three. You are only one. You will certainly be killed.”

  “Perhaps. But they are not expecting anyone except an old man. If I can surprise them, I might shorten the odds.”

  “You are willing to die for me?”

  “No, canon. I’m willing to die for your ideas.”

  “Then you really did read De revolutionibus.”

  “I told you I did.”

  “And you believe it is worth dying for?”

  “Yes.”

  Hélène had moved to Amaury’s side and was clutching his arm. “Don’t, Amaury. There must be another way.”

  “I wish I could think of one. But if I simply stay in here, we lose the element of surprise and we’ll be trapped. If I can kill one of them, maybe even two, you two might be able to barricade yourselves in here until help arrives. If the third man cannot get in easily, he might even flee.”

  “But what about you? About us?”

  “We’ve come this far, Hélène. Don’t lose hope now.” He smiled. “I’ve discovered I’m more difficult to kill than I thought.”

  Hélène tried to smile in return, but could not. Tears were in her eyes. “If you don’t return, I shall throw myself off the battlements.”

  “You can’t. Heloise didn’t.”

  “I believe you said in the field, ‘We won’t do that part.’ ”

  Despite himself, Amaury smiled. “Hélène, I will come back to you. I don’t know how, but I will.”

  Amaury checked his sword and dagger and stepped into the hall. After he heard the bolt drop behind him, he moved down the staircase. He placed himself against the inside wall just a
fter a turn at a corner, so the invaders would not see him until the last possible moment.

  How many would come up the stairs? One, to scout? Two? All three? Amaury waited for some time, candlelight shadows flickering on the staircase walls. Finally he heard a crack and then the door at the bottom creaked open. He braced himself against the inside wall. Soft footsteps could just be heard on the stone stairs. How many sets? Three? Probably. Certainly more than just one.

  He listened for whispering but could hear nothing. These men had worked together long enough to communicate by gesture alone. He strained his ears, but could not be certain how close his adversaries had drawn. Footfalls were more distinct now. Yes, definitely more than one.

  Amaury gripped the hilt of his sword, the leather feeling full in his sweaty hands. Still the sound of soft footsteps, but no talking. Much closer now. He breathed a prayer of forgiveness for his sins. They were almost upon him. When to jump out? Can’t move too soon. They could avoid his first thrust. Or too late. Then they would be on him. He cursed that he had spent nine years in useless disputation when the skills he needed were to be found in the streets.

  He could hear breathing echoing softly off the redbrick walls. Now? No. Wait. A few seconds more.

  Now! Amaury leapt into the passage, sword out. But he had misjudged. The large man who had held Routbourg was beyond sword range. Amaury lunged but the man, though bearlike, was quick and easily avoided the thrust. His compatriot, the other brute, the one who had grabbed him in the alley, moved next to his mate. Both now had swords drawn. The first of the two advanced one step, keeping Amaury at bay. The other man pulled even with him. They were close together in the tight confines of the staircase, but Amaury knew he was not enough of a swordsman to kill both before they reached him. Maybe one, though. Amaury chose the first man up, closest to the inside wall. The assassins had read his thoughts, however, and shifted position so that any thrust from Amaury could be easily parried by his target.

  Suddenly the man on the outside seemed to be wrenched backward. An arm was clearly visible around his throat. His dagger appeared in his left hand. He tried to spin but instead gave off a gurgled cry and fell backward down the stairs, the way he had come.

  The first man, by reflex, turned his head to see what had befallen his comrade. Amaury did not hesitate, but immediately drove his sword into the mans midriff. And then again. The man turned back, too strong to fall. Amaury slashed at the man’s wrist and sent his enemy’s weapon skittering down the stairs. The man took one staggering step forward, his hands extended, trying to reach Amaury’s throat. One more thrust stopped him. For a second he seemed suspended, then he turned and crashed down the stairs. The sword remained in his chest, pulling out of Amaury’s hand as the man fell.

  When Amaury reached the bottom, the man he had stabbed lay on his side, surely dead, Amaury’s sword broken in half by the fall. The other attacker lay on the floor, faceup, on top of whoever had flung his arm about his throat. One look told Amaury he too was dead. Had old Anton saved him? It seemed incredible. Then whoever was lying underneath pushed the dead man away.

  “You!”

  Philippe Sévrier nodded perfunctorily, then looked to his side. Blood had seeped onto his cloak.

  “Why . . . what are you doing here?” Amaury tightened his grip on his dagger.

  “I came to protect the astronomer.” Sévrier’s eyes met his. “The same as you, I expect.”

  Amaury didn’t know what to say.

  “Ory sent me to kill you. By land, in case the boat was delayed.”

  “I don’t understand,” Amaury said, “but we don’t have time for explanations. There were three of them.”

  Sévrier’s eyes rolled upward at the same instant as Amaury’s. “The battlements.”

  They both hurried up the stairs, Sévrier holding his side. The assassin had wounded him, but he was determined to keep moving. When they reached the second landing, the door that led to the battlements was open. Amaury bounded to the third floor. Sévrier was moving too slowly now to be of help. The skinny man was prying at the door with a short bar. He whirled, and suddenly his knife was in his hand.

  Amaury wished for his sword but had only his dagger. His adversary lowered himself into a crouch, holding his knife loosely in an upturned right hand. He seemed to be inviting Amaury to move first. But he would be quick on the counterattack. This man had been fighting with knives since he was a child.

  Suddenly the assassin lashed out, his right hand a blur of flesh and metal. Amaury jumped back just in time and the blade only nicked the sleeve of his tunic. The man smiled. Then he looked down the stairs. Sévrier had struggled halfway up. His knife was drawn as well.

  The assassin retreated into a corner, a wall to his back on either side. Sévrier came two steps nearer. The assassin’s eyes flicked quickly back and forth between his two adversaries. Choosing the weaker was simple. He flung himself toward the wounded Sévrier. Amaury dove across the landing, just able to get a hand on the assassin’s ankle. The man was thrown off-balance. He tried to grab Sévrier for support, but Sévrier was able to avoid his grasp. The man’s feet spun in the stairs and he began to fall, his body in an awkward twist. He clawed at the wall, trying for the handhold, but momentum carried him down. He tumbled backward, his head striking a stair with a crack. From there he kept falling until he stopped at a corner of the staircase, his face smacking the brick wall.

  When Amaury got there, the man’s head was at a 45-degree angle to the side. His neck had snapped. He stared up at Amaury through lifeless eyes, as had Henri Routbourg and Giles.

  Giles. The wounded man on the landing had saved Amaury’s life and taken the life of his friend. As if matters were not complicated enough. But there would be time to sort that out later. For the moment, there were other priorities.

  Amaury knocked on the door of Copernicus’s study and told Hélène it was he. She threw the door open and rushed into his arms.

  “Oh, Amaury, I prayed from the moment the door closed. God has granted me a miracle.”

  He returned the hug briefly, but then told Hélène that they must attend to the man who had saved his life. Sévrier was leaning against the wall. When Hélène saw him, she gasped.

  “But he’s—”

  “Yes. From Nérac. Fate, it seems, has thrown us together. We need to fashion something for his wound.”

  Amaury felt an arm on his shoulder. The astronomer shoved him aside.

  “I’ll fashion something for his wound, young man. I am a physician, you know.”

  “I didn’t. I thought you were an astronomer. But I would be grateful.”

  “I’m not an astronomer. I consider myself a philosopher of astronomy. But we can talk about that later.” He gestured for Sévrier to come inside and sit. Sévrier pulled back his clothing to reveal an angry wound about four inches long. Blood was flowing down his side.

  “Lucky,” Copernicus muttered, almost to himself. “No bubbling from the wound. Bloody but not serious.” He instructed Hélène where to find cloth to use as a bandage, and told Amaury to fetch water from the well in the courtyard. When Amaury returned, Copernicus had almost stopped the bleeding. Several bloody cloths were on the floor at his feet. Sévrier was holding a folded cloth against the wound. It was red but not sodden.

  “Warm water would be better,” Copernicus said, “but cold will have to do.” He dipped a clean cloth into the bucket and wiped the dried blood and dirt from the area.

  “Now we will bandage it and apply a poultice to promote healing and prevent infection.” Copernicus shuffled off to another room and eventually returned with another folded cloth, on which was smeared a gummy brown substance that gave off a stench as bad as a festering wound itself.

  “What is that?” Amaury asked.

  “I’ll discuss heliocentrism with you, young man, but not medicine.” He placed the cloth against the wound and wrapped another long length around Sévrier’s ribs, tying it expertly when he was done. />
  “Well,” he asked Sévrier, “how do you feel?”

  Sévrier tentatively raised his arm. “Much better.”

  Copernicus nodded. “Of course.”

  “Thank you, canon.”

  “Do not remove the bandage for at least four days. The wound isn’t deep, but air may well cause it to turn septic.”

  “Have you read the works of Paracelsus?” Amaury asked suddenly. “That maniac? Why would one bother?”

  Amaury considered for a moment telling Copernicus that, following the teachings of the maniac, he and Hélène had not contracted plague, but decided to hold his tongue.

  Sévrier stood. He was undeniably improved.

  “I have one more chore to attend to,” Amaury said. “I’ve got to pay a visit to the boat in the harbor.”

  “I’m going with you,” Sévrier insisted.

  “Nonsense. There will be only one man on board and he’s a . . . cripple. With his thugs eliminated, he could not be less of a threat.”

  “I’m coming all the same.”

  “Please, Amaury,” Hélène said plaintively, “let him go. It cannot hurt to be safe.”

  Amaury shrugged. “Thank you. Your assistance is welcome.”

  Before they left, Amaury went to the battlements. Two short, crossed wooden poles that the man with the knife had used as a grappling hook were wedged in an embrasure. Amaury pulled up the rope that the man had used to scale the wall and left it inside. Then he set off with Sévrier to meet Liebfreund.

  “Did you hear news of Castell’buono?” Amaury asked as they made their way down the stairs.

  “Castell’buono is dead,” Sévrier replied. “He died under torture at Angoulême.”

  Amaury sighed. “I’m truly sorry to hear of it,” he said. “I realized too late that we were kindred spirits. I wish I could have saved him.”

  “You could not have saved him,” Sévrier told him. “The priest had sent word ahead. He was arrested as he arrived at the city. He saved you, however. Me as well.”

  “Saved me? How?”

  “I was told he held out for a very long time. Both of his arms and legs were broken and his eyes were put out before he finally capitulated. When he did, he told his inquisitor that you worked for the Lutherans and I was an Inquisition spy who had been sent to Paris by the priest to eliminate you.”