“Why would he do that?”
“He assumed you were Ory’s spy. He was correct, of course, at least then. He knew I would follow you to Paris and he wished me to be able to remain free to eliminate you. As a Lutheran, I would have been pursued. A messenger was immediately dispatched from Angoulême to Paris. He arrived soon after I was arrested. I had told Ory precisely the same tale as the messenger related—that I worked for the priest. What choice did I have? But Ory hadn’t believed me. The messenger changed all that. Now Ory thought God had dropped me into his lap. He sent me in pursuit of you. When I realized that Ory truly wanted you dead, I knew that you were attempting to save the astronomer, not murder him. By now, of course, word will have arrived in Paris from Nérac giving my true identity, but I have no intention of returning to France.”
“I understand.” They had reached the courtyard. “I need to know about Giles Fabrizy.”
Sévrier grasped himself about the chest. He flinched when he stretched the wound. “Giles Fabrizy? Why do you need to know about him?”
“He was my friend.”
“Your friend? You mean from Montaigu?”
“Yes. From Montaigu.”
“He worked for Ory as well. You knew that, didn’t you? We all assumed that once he was . . . gone, Ory had just gone back to Montaigu for his replacement. You. We never suspected that Ory was going to all that trouble just so no one would suspect the whore.”
“But you killed him. Stabbed him to death in an alley.”
“Fabrizy would have betrayed us. Betrayed the astronomer up there. He had betrayed us. We had no choice. What . . . happened to him . . . was his own doing. You must see that. Do you think I wanted that assignment?”
Amaury interrupted. “How would he have betrayed the astronomer?” “He stole the manuscript. The one you read. Hoess had obtained it— Tm not certain how—from someone in the Church secretly sympathetic to our cause. Then someone stole it. Hoess suspected Fabrizy. He devised a test. Sent him on an errand. Gave him the opportunity to betray us. And he did. He was on his way to Ory when . . . when he was stopped.”
Amaury allowed the information to settle. Sévrier could not be blamed. Not really. When someone is under threat of torture or execution, how can he be culpable for an act of self-protection? But to absolve Sévrier completely—that would not do either. He could not allow Giles to have died a traitor’s death.
“Giles had no intention of bringing the manuscript to Ory,” Amaury told him.
“But of course he was going to Ory. Where else?”
“He was bringing the manuscript to me.”
“You?” Sévrier shook his head fiercely. “That isn’t possible. How can you know that?”
“He wrote to me, telling me of his intentions, on the back of a diagram taken from the manuscript. He knew of the importance of the discovery. He wanted to share it with me. To ask my advice. Vivienne brought the diagram to me after Giles was dead.”
“My God,” whispered Sévrier. “I murdered him for nothing.” He leaned over and began to moan. Amaury felt a wave of reproach for torturing the poor devil, but Giles demanded retribution.
“You couldn’t have known,” Amaury said, fully aware that the words were hollow.
“Oh, my God, forgive me.”
“Sévrier, you couldn’t have known.” Amaury spoke more sincerely now. “And let us not forget that without you, I would now be dead. And we saved the work. You saved the work. All that must be worth something. Balances the scales somewhat.”
Sévrier nodded dumbly. Tears were on his cheeks. “I suppose.”
“Come, Philippe.” Amaury took Sévrier’s elbow and led him toward the quay. “Let us go and balance the scales further.”
XLVII
THE BOAT WAS ROCKING gently on the waters of the lagoon, tied fore and aft to the pier. It was a large, flat-bottomed craft, suitable for navigating the shallow waters of the river tributaries and the bay. With that construction, the cabin could not be belowdecks, but sat in the middle of the craft, windows on either side, with curtains drawn. It was easy to discern that none of the crew was aboard. They had most likely retired to the town to drink and whore. Or perhaps the three assassins had steered the boat themselves, so that no witnesses to their movements would remain after they had completed their task.
Amaury and Sévrier stepped onto the deck quietly, allowing themselves a moment to become accustomed to the movement, then walked silently to the cabin. Amaury pushed the door open. As in Paris, the room was in almost total darkness. The curtains that masked the windows were thick and long. Amaury surmised that Liebfreund had brought them on board himself. A single lantern, set on a shelf near the door, its wick almost fully retracted, provided only the most meager illumination. A table was set in the middle of cabin, behind which, encased in a cloak, sat the deformed Swiss. The gentle rocking of the boat sent the lantern to flickering, causing Liebfreund’s grotesque features to take on a demonic air.
Amaury stepped into the cabin. He heard Sévrier gasp as he followed.
“Welcome, gentlemen.” Liebfreund’s speech had become raspier, more arduous. The journey had obviously been taxing. He evidenced no sign of surprise that Amaury and Sévrier had arrived instead of his henchmen.
Amaury halted just inside the door. Sévrier stood next to him, shaking so violently that Amaury could feel the vibrations. He must have felt he was in the presence of Satan himself.
“Please, Faverges,” Liebfreund beckoned, “come and sit. Have some wine.” He paused. “Your friend seems to be in need of it.”
“No, thank you,” Amaury replied.
“Why not? That you have arrived here would indicate that you have nothing more to fear from my associates. And you certainly have nothing to fear from me.” Liebfreund placed his arms on the table and pushed himself erect. The effort required to raise himself to a standing position was almost more than the Swiss could muster. Amaury began, by instinct, to reach out to help the poor devil, but Liebfreund succeeded in pulling himself erect unaided.
The Swiss shuffled to the shelf on which the lantern sat and laboriously reached up to remove a carafe.
“If you intend to murder me, you can at least allow me a cup of wine first. As I mentioned, you are welcome to join me.”
“I don’t intend to murder you, Liebfreund.” Liebfreund’s movement had caused Amaury and Sévrier to move to the side, so that the table remained between them.
“No? What do you intend, then?” Liebfreund shuffled back to the table and placed the carafe upon it. Amaury and Sévrier continued to shift position so the table remained as a barrier. Liebfreund removed a cup from the shelf and placed it next to the carafe.
“The local count will not take kindly to the attempt on the old man’s life. The French Inquisition holds little sway here.”
Liebfreund nodded. The lantern was now behind him, leaving his charred face almost wholly in the dark. “I see. You will allow someone else to murder me so that you will not have to soil your own hands.” “What is done to you is not my affair. I had almost convinced myself to forgive you for Routbourg. As you said . . . justice. But now you come to destroy not a Lutheran, but a Catholic. One of your own.”
“My own? Oh, Faverges, you know nothing at all. Catholic, Lutheran. It makes no difference. That man would introduce discord, more discord, plow the ground so those who walk in the footsteps of Routbourg, of Oecolampadius, might grow and flourish in the manure of his theories. Leaving him alive would be placing a torch in the hands of savages so that they may—” Liebfreund paused for a moment, his eyes drifting off to a place Amaury could never know. “Or perhaps they will decide not to execute me . . . ”
Amaury suddenly realized that Liebfreund had maneuvered himself between the door and himself and Sévrier. But what of it?
Liebfreund took a step backward into the doorway, then reached up and pushed back his hood. Amaury and Sévrier stood transfixed. They were staring at a skull covered with what
seemed to be only a thin layer of parchment. No hair. Holes where ears should have been. But his eyes, green and piercing, never wavered. He appeared as a creature from Hell.
“I would have allowed you to kill me. Welcomed it. But I cannot allow you not to kill me. I’m already dead, you see. My life ended in Basel. I have been only a spirit since, not truly human at all. I have often pondered what, in fact, I am. A phantom? An oddity? A walking corpse? Do you know? If you do, enlighten me. The soul continues to live when the body dies, but does the mind? It is not supposed to, yet it did for me. I had not the luxury of madness or death. Only the agony of awareness.” Liebfreund shuffled closer to the shelf on which the lantern sat. The light fell on one side of his face, leaving the other in shadow. “And so I have pretended to exist. Deluded myself into believing that, even in this ghastly state, I had a purpose for remaining on Earth. That I was performing a service for God. But that is ended now. I will be exposed to the world as an object of ridicule. Something to evoke revulsion and derision. Laughter and screams from children. Some enterprising sort might even find a way to profit from public viewings of the creature.
“I believe I will spare myself all of that, gentlemen. I prefer to choose my own destiny. Of course, my choice would shock others.” He raised one of his claws. “But I have no fear. Unlike you two, I can no longer feel pain.” Then, with a swipe of his arm, he knocked over the lantern.
Man and cabin exploded in flames. Liebfreund must have poured some of the lantern fluid on his cloak and on the decks before they arrived. The Swiss, now fully ablaze, stood before the only door, rendering himself an impassable barrier. Flames filled the compartment. Amaury and Sévrier whirled about, looking for another exit. The heat was already close to unbearable. They ripped down the flaming curtains. The windows were small, but might provide an exit if they could squeeze through.
Sévrier grabbed a chair and broke the window on the right. The air rushing in fed the flames. Sévrier fell back, pushing Amaury into the opposite corner. Amaury thought to rush for the door, but Liebfreund had turned into a human torch. Whether he was still alive could not be discerned. Amaury saw two green eyes through the flames, seemingly lit by the fire, but he couldn’t be certain if the vision was real or imagined.
There was no way out of the room. Breaking the other window would only feed the flames further. Liebfreund was to have his ultimate revenge.
Suddenly Amaury felt a hand around either of his arms. He found himself lifted off the ground, being aimed at the open window. In a moment he was halfway through, teetering on the window frame at the waist, a fulcrum between safety and Hell. He grabbed frantically for the outside wall as a lever to push himself through. The wall was horribly hot, but he succeeded in propelling himself out. He sprawled on the deck for only a second, then leapt to his feet. He was at the window, but the flames now filled the cabin and were burning the outside walls.
“Sévrier!” he screamed. “Here! Take my hand!”
There was no reply. Amaury tried to look inside, but the heat was overpowering and drove him back. He tried again but could get no closer. He heard himself screaming Sévrier’s name, pointlessly and in despair. Finally he was forced to accept that there was no hope. The deck had begun to burn and would soon engulf him. The plank to the wharf was on the other side of the boat. No chance to reach it now.
Amaury took one last look back to the cabin where the man who had taken Giles’ life had just died saving his, and dove from the boat into the bay.
XLVIII
COPERNICUS TIED the last bandage around Amaury’s hands. “That should feel better. Milk, egg whites, and honey. You are remarkably fortunate, young man. Your friend saved your life.”
“My friend?” Amaury had thought of Sévrier as many things, but not that. But how else to describe one who dies for you? “Yes, he did.”
“These dressings should be changed daily. Do you intend to stay here for any length of time?” The tone of the question left no doubt that it was not an invitation.
The sting of the burns was already abating. Copernicus had told him that none had done more than singe the flesh. Seconds more in that inferno and the result would have been far different. If Liebfreund had been granted those seconds in Basel, the course of all their lives would have been altered.
“I hadn’t decided how long to stay,” Amaury told Copernicus. “I was hoping that you might share some of your work with me.”
“Share? An ambiguous word.”
“I have traveled quite some distance to learn more of your theories.”
Copernicus frowned. “But you came uninvited.”
“I know that, canon. But if I had waited for an invitation, you would not still be alive.”
“I have worked alone for twenty years, young man. I have shared my work only with a few at selected moments. I have no intention of taking on a partner now.”
“I would never presume to be a partner.”
“I have no need for an assistant either. Or an acolyte. Or even a cook. I dislike company. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I am what I am, not what you would have me be.”
“I would have you be a brilliant astronomer. You are that.”
“No, I’m not. An astronomer could not have chosen a less appropriate spot than this. Nine nights out of ten, clouds or fog obscure the heavens. I take sightings when I can, but for the most part, I have relied on the tables of Ptolemy or King Alphonso.”
“Without observation, how was this great work fashioned?”
“Why does one need to observe in order to imagine? Observation is a mechanical act. Anton could do it. Or you. It is what one does with observation that matters most.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Heliocentrism is not new. Ideas seldom are. With perhaps a few rare exceptions, all of us merely extrapolate. Push forward in small increments what has come before. Aristarchus postulated heliocentrism before the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ. Even Christians have put forth the notion. Nicholas of Cusa espoused heliocentrism a century ago, but Regiomontanus insisted geocentrism was correct. Others have considered the question since. But no one applied rigor to disproving Ptolemy’s construct, so it was never seriously challenged.
“Twenty years ago, High Pontiff Leo summoned me to Rome. The calendar by which Christendom determined the seasons was becoming ridiculously skewed. If the trend continued, the day of the Resurrection would one day fall in midsummer. The pope asked me to study the problem. I soon realized that the fault lay not in the calendar, but in the astronomical system on which it was based. Studying the problem without preconception, I realized that Ptolemy’s Celestial Pearl was merely a hypothesis, an axiom, not a conclusion based on data. He began with Aristotle’s notion that the Earth was at the center of the universe, and then fit the data to suit the conclusion. It never occurred to Ptolemy to alter his assumptions and allow the data to speak for itself. I did.”
“Your theory will change Christianity forever. Just to witness the events of the past months will attest to that.”
“Yes, I fear you are correct. That some have already died because of my work pains me. That others are certain to die is even worse. That is why I intend to hold my theories to my own bosom, at least for the present.”
“You do not intend to publish De revolutionibus?”
“Not until I am ready. My work is not complete.”
“But what I saw was wondrous. It must be shared with the world.”
“Why? Because you are impatient to see it? I have been toiling at this problem for more than twenty years. I will not consent to have it produced for public consumption until it is precisely as I wish. And that is not yet.”
“But men and women have died to protect you. Philippe Sévrier only an hour ago. To protect your work so that it is not relegated to oblivion. I myself have been near death more than once, as has Madame d’Artigny. We watched four people burned at the stake for it in Paris. How can you now refuse to do what so many have
sacrificed for?”
“I appreciate what you have done for me, young man, but I never solicited your aid. Nor anyone else’s. I don’t see how I can be obligated to publish the results of my work before I deem it proper.”
“But if others come—”
“I will take steps to better protect myself, certainly. But if it is God’s will that my work is destroyed, I can do nothing.”
“You are a scientist. How can you speak of God’s will as denying the advancement of knowledge ? ”
“Because I am a scientist, I know that God may will anything He wishes.”
Copernicus refused to speak of the matter further. The following morning, Amaury and Hélène prepared to leave. Old Anton, who had returned from his errand, informed them that the canon did not eat breakfast, but he had instructed the cook to prepare them a large meal of eggs, meat, and cheese. They ate in silence, Amaury waiting to see if Copernicus would make an appearance to bid them farewell. He did not.
Amaury and Hélène left the castle to return to Elbing, where they would obtain provisions and an escort for the journey out of Poland. The sky had cleared and they rode through open plains warmed by the spring sun.
For a long time, they did not speak. Finally Amaury broke the silence.
“I killed Sévrier,” he said softly. “I told him that Giles Fabrizy, the man he murdered for fear of betrayal to the Inquisition, was not on his way to Ory, but rather to bring Copernicus’s work to me. That he had slain a man for nothing. I thought Giles deserved that much vengeance. But now . . . Sévrier died for me, Hélène. Out of despair for his act.”
“You did not kill Sévrier,” Hélène said firmly. “He murdered a man, Amaury. And he would have murdered you. Probably me as well. He repented for a death by saving a life. God would think that just, I believe.”
Amaury considered this. “But even so, it was all for nothing. The knowledge will die here with that stubborn Pole. He has made a discovery that will alter the course of Christianity. Change the way Man views his Church and his world. With so much at stake, how can the man refuse to publish his work?”
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