They leave in a coach, all crammed together except Petrus, who rides a horse gifted by Ludovico. The coach is a gift as well, and the horses who pull it, and the man who drives it, a sword and dagger at his waist; or rather, they are a loan, for Ludovico claims he will come for them in Rome, when things in France have settled.
They have few enough possessions that, looking at their meager baggage, Petrus understands, with a sharp ache, exactly how little he owns; how fully others have owned him. They have not even left without receiving permission, albeit through Ludovico, who went to the king in his chamber and suggested that His Majesty send Monsieur Sauvage and his family to Rome, to his ally the Duke of Parma, who will no doubt appreciate the gift in return for his service.
“What did His Majesty say?” Petrus asks, and Ludovico shrugs, waves a hand—an uncanny imitation of the king’s irritated manner when he does not wish to be bothered with trivial matters. Petrus might laugh or cry—or both together—at any moment.
When he presses the ruby ring Her Majesty gave Catherine after Antoinette’s birth into his friend’s hand, Ludovico jerks his own hand away, as if the gold stung him.
“Absolutely not,” he says. “I do this for friendship, not for coin.” There is a tightness to his bearded jaw, a hurt to his eyes, that make Petrus nod and fold his pride, and the ring, away.
“You have the letter?” Ludovico says after a moment, and Petrus nods, patting the front of his doublet. In Rome, they are meant to throw themselves upon the mercy of the Duke of Parma, who spied Henri and Madeleine once on a trip to Paris, sitting at the feet of the queen. Ludovico, ever shrewd about forming friendships that might be beneficial, either then or in the future, had cultivated one with him.
“They will have you, I am certain of it,” Ludovico says. “His Excellency will be overjoyed. And he is loyal to our king.”
Loyalty seems to Petrus a rare and precious trait, and one as slippery as eels. But he thumps Ludovico’s shoulder hard in gratitude.
“I can never thank you enough, my friend,” he says, and Ludovico shakes his head, hard and then harder, his dark curls, silver-streaked now, flying.
“You can thank me by keeping safe,” he says, and there is a tightness now to his voice, as well. He blinks into Petrus’s face, gazes at him for a moment as if memorizing his features, and Petrus does likewise, drinks in the sight of his friend in thirsty gulps. He does not think, now, of what role Ludovico might have taken in the massacre at Paris; he thinks only of his friend, and all the good that lies tucked safe under his breastbone; feels only the stiffness of the paper tucked safe inside his own doublet, against his own breastbone, closed with the Duke of Nevers’s seal.
When they embrace—Ludovico’s arms sudden and tight around Petrus’s shoulder blades, so tight that his breath leaves him on a sigh—Petrus cannot speak.