EXTRAORDINARY. Amaury had come to La Croix Faubin prepared for many things, but not this.
He paid a smiling Madame Chouchou, then retired to an upstairs room with Vivienne. As he anticipated, her body was beautiful: smooth, young, rounded. She gave off an intoxicating, musky scent. Amaury desired her so completely, so profoundly, that he coupled with her instantly. It was all he could do not to complete the act in seconds. Even so, thrusting against her, hearing her breathe, smelling her, he could control himself for only a few moments. The release was heaven itself, but, the instant he was done, his disappointment was overpowering. For it to be over so quickly.
Then Vivienne had done the most exceptional thing.
“There is no rush for you to leave,” she said. “Lay here with me for a bit. You may find the second time even more pleasing.”
He had.
An hour later, Amaury was awash in a deep sense of peaceful satisfaction. He would fairly float his way back to the city. When Amaury had told him that he intended to stay, Broussard had laughed. “When I told you to be more open-minded, I didn’t think you would take my words quite so much to heart.”
When Amaury returned to the first floor, however, a familiar figure stood before him. “Not in church after all, then?”
“No, Monsieur Hoess. As you see, I have sought stimulation of a different sort.”
“I do indeed. I’m pleased not to have been forced to wait all night.”
Amaury had not seen Hoess at the meeting. Had the Swabian been secreted, or had he arrived only recently? “Where’s Geoffrey?” he asked.
“I sent Geoffrey on ahead.” Hoess extended his hand. “Come inside with me, Faverges. There is someone who wishes to meet you.” He led Amaury back into the room in which Calvin had spoken. The furniture had been returned to its standard arrangement. Inside was Henri, the swarthy Swiss who had spoken with Calvin. The wine merchant ushered Amaury in, then took his leave.
The Swiss wasted no time on introductions. “Brother Broussard describes you in glowing terms and assures us that you would make a valued member of our group. Brother Hoess doesn’t trust you. Brother Turvette is certain you are a spy.”
“I seek neither membership nor trust,” Amaury replied, although in fact he sought both. “And you must decide for yourself if you think me a spy.”
“What did you think of Brother Calvin?” Henri asked.
“Obviously an excellent mind. Beautiful logic. His rejection of the Mass and priestly intervention seems quite correct to me, although the notion that one may be damned even before birth is not altogether appealing.”
“Interpretation of the word of God is not undertaken to appeal,” Henri retorted. “But perhaps we can discuss this further on the way back to Paris. That is, if you don’t mind my company.”
“Not at all.” Amaury retrieved his cloak, but noticed that Henri wore only the dark blue doublet and black hose he had worn inside. Instead of heading north, they made directly for porte Saint-Antoine. “I thought this route was too dangerous.”
Henri sighed. “Geoffrey came by porte de Temple? He always does that. Porte Saint-Antoine is safe enough.”
After they had walked a bit, Henri said, “I understand from Geoffrey that Giles Fabrizy was your friend. His death was a great loss. Brilliant young man.”
“But I thought Geoffrey said he didn’t know Giles.”
“Don’t be foolish, Faverges. Of course he did. As you well deduced. Lying is not one of Geoffrey’s best developed skills.”
Amaury did not reply.
“I seek the day when such mindless violence will no longer stain Man’s path on Earth,” Henri continued, raising his voice slightly in an attempt to make the platitude sound more sincere.
“But every act is God’s will, is it not?”
“Is it? I’m not certain.” Henri had returned to the offhand manner that suited him better.
“But why do you bring up Giles?”
“What I wanted to tell you was that Brother Calvin found you quite impressive,” Henri replied, ignoring the question. “Uncommon for him.”
“Brother Calvin is too kind.”
Henri laughed once more. “He would blanch at that description. But you are obviously an intelligent and resourceful fellow. And I suspect you are ready to throw off the corrupt ways and seek your own path . . . ”
Almost precisely what Amaury had written in the sham letter to his father. He was pleased with himself for having thought to produce it.
“We would be honored,” Henri went on, “to have you join us. Would you consider it? Assuming you find our ideas worthwhile, of course. There are many streams of thought in the Reform movement. Not just Brother Calvin’s.”
“Like disproving Genesis?”
Henri waved off the notion. “I actually find that rumor preposterous. I am undertaking a journey soon. I will be gone about two weeks. When I return, there are some people I would like you to meet. If you are willing.”
“Where are you going?”
“Out of Paris,” Henri replied. He whispered a caution as they approached porte Saint-Antoine but, after a perfunctory challenge by two sleepy soldiers, the two were permitted entry, the Bastille looming above them on the left.
Henri cocked his head toward the huge fortress as they passed. “It was built to be impregnable,” he said. “Two centuries ago. Walls eighty feet high, two feet thick. Yet la Bastille has been besieged seven times and surrendered on all but one of those occasions. Obviously, what was invulnerable in the planning turned out to be less so in practice. The Catholic Church was built to be impregnable as well. I suspect it will suffer the same fate.”
“The Catholics may prove to be more resilient than you imagine,” Amaury replied.
“Resilient? Perhaps. But also top-heavy, with a rotten foundation. A bad combination in a strong wind and, let me assure you, Monsieur Faverges, our wind is strong indeed.”
“Winds are unpredictable,” Amaury observed. “They blow back in your face when you least expect them.”
“You do not curry favor. I’II say that for you.”
Inside the city walls, Amaury was about to turn left toward rue de la Cerise and home, but Henri bade him continue on. “Come to my lodgings,” he said. “We can share some wine and talk some more. There are some matters on which I would like your opinion.”
By reflex, Amaury’s hand went to his dagger. Being trapped in Henri’s room had not been part of his plan, but there was little choice. To say no might well close off Henri permanently as a source of information.
They walked quite a distance together saying little until Henri gestured and turned left at pont Notre Dame, the same bridge that Amaury had used the previous night to visit Liebfreund. Instead of turning east off grand rue Saint-Jacques, however, as he had done last night, Henri turned west just before the Sorbonne. They entered a warren of small streets, most of which held cheap residences for students or foreign visitors.
All at once they heard footsteps behind them, noisy footsteps, matching theirs. Two men, it seemed, perhaps three, making no effort at concealment. At first, Amaury thought this might be an ambush of Henri’s making, but one look at the man’s wide eyes told Amaury the threat was from a different source. Henri stopped and threw an arm across Amaury’s chest, then spun around and listened. The footsteps ceased as well.
“We must hurry,” Henri whispered, as he motioned for Amaury to start up again. He turned in at the small street to their left. The footsteps began again, growing louder, more distinct. At the next corner, Henri turned left. “We must make it to my lodgings,” he gasped. “Before they cut us off.”
They turned right down a narrow street, little more than an alley. They were walking more quickly, heading toward the Sorbonne. If they could make it, there would be more foot traffic, even so late at night.
Henri continued along a serpentine path, but the footsteps never left them. He and Amaury began to walk faster, but the sound was relentless. They were moving away from the Sorbonne now, heading for Henri’s lodgings. “Two more streets,” Henri gasped. Together, they broke into a run. Their pursuers began running as well.
The footsteps seemed now to be just behind them. Amaury glanced back but saw no one. He pulled out his dagger. Henri made a quick turn down a narrow street to the left. Amaury followed, looking back again just before the turn to see if the men were gaining.
Amaury was still looking over his shoulder when the strangled cry came. He spun and saw Henri in the grasp of a large, coarse ruffian who held the hapless Swiss across the chest with his other hand over Henri’s mouth. Henri attempted to kick his way free or cry out, but his captor was far too strong. Henri appeared as a child’s marionette, kicking comically into the air.
Amaury took a step forward, leveling his dagger. The thug holding Henri made no move to draw a weapon of his own, but simply kept his victim between himself and Amaury. Amaury took a step to the side, to gain a better angle of attack, when he suddenly felt a numbing blow on his wrist. The dagger went skittering away. Amaury found himself in the grasp of another of the hooligans. His adversary, while not large, was strong and practiced. He grabbed Amaury by the upper arms, then pinned him with a powerful arm across his chest. Amaury felt a hand clamp over his mouth.
Henri and Amaury were held facing one another, each helpless. Another man, a ferretlike creature, unshaven and in a filthy brown jerkin, emerged from the gloom. He looked from Amaury to Henri, and then, after a moment, as Amaury watched helplessly, walked to the Swiss, removed a long knife from his belt, and calmly slit Henri’s throat.
Henris captor released him as a geyser of blood exploded from the gaping wound. Henri’s mouth opened and shut quickly, as if he were trying to speak. Only a horrible, soft gurgle emerged. Henri took two drunken steps forward. Amaury recoiled, pushing his back into his assailant as the torrent of blood splashed on the ground near his feet.
Henri, his eyes fixed, seemed to stare at Amaury for a moment. There was a twitching at the corners of his mouth. Then, abruptly, he reeled backward, smashing against the wall of a building. The poor Swiss was suspended for a second, then sank to the stone pavement. His eyes remained open and unblinking. His clothing, down to his shoes, was drenched with blood. And there, Henri died.
The man holding Amaury released his grip. The man with the knife took a step in his direction. Amaury’s head spun, as if on a swivel, as he desperately sought an avenue of escape. But they were all around him. He was about to run in whatever direction he faced, when he saw everyone’s attention turn to a darkened doorway. A figure shuffled out, a misshapen creature encased in a cloak, only his deformed face visible in the dim light.
Liebfreund glanced briefly at the figure on the ground. “It is fortunate that I came along,” he said. “The thugs one is forced to employ are easily confused. It might have been you over there instead of that scum.”
Amaury stared at the dead man. He had seen men killed during brawls on the streets of Paris in his time at the Sorbonne, but a knife thrust was clean and neat. Nothing compared to this. Slowly, he regained control and, as he did so, shock was supplanted by fury. “You cannot murder innocents in the name of God,” he shouted at Liebfreund. “You become everything your enemies say you are.”
“Keep your voice down,” Liebfreund snapped. Then, he added softly, “And he was not an innocent.”
“Why?” insisted Amaury. “Because he did not believe as you do?”
Liebfreund stared at the body of the dead Lutheran for some moments, then raised his hideously charred face to Amaury. “His name is Henri Routbourg. I know him. He was at Basel.”