THEY REACHED THE LOIRE late in the afternoon. The Pithiviers-Orléans roads were obviously not favored by the aristocracy. Four times he and Vivienne had been forced to help push the wagon to ford streams, and another to remount a wheel that had come almost completely disengaged in a deep rut. Amaury was exhausted. His arms ached, his hands burned, and his rump felt as sore as after a beating at Montaigu.
He came away from these labors even more admiring of his companions. Vivienne had helped with every crisis, brushing away his protests that such work was for men alone. And the horse. He never complained, never broke stride. Even when it was necessary for Amaury and Vivienne to push from behind, he could feel the beast strain to make the humans’ job as easy as possible.
Orléans was on the north side of the Loire. For all that it was but a day’s ride on horseback from Amboise, the city had been growing as a center of Lutheranism. Perhaps it was because of the legacy of the heroism and stoicism of Jeanne d’Arc, perhaps it was simply due to chance, but Orléans was the one stop on their journey where Amaury and Vivienne could feel safe in their roles.
They passed through the gate without challenge and easily found their destination, another bookseller’s. They were welcomed, given a fine dinner of chicken and vegetables in white wine. Amaury was escorted to a tiny room in the attic while Vivienne slept with the children. An unbroken blanket of clouds lay over the city, so Amaury was once again forced to postpone stargazing with Vivienne. He was, in truth, relieved for the respite. He had another task in mind.
As soon as he closed his door, he reached into the sack that held his belongings and removed the packet of letters he was to deliver in Nérac. He turned the packet over in his hands. If he attempted to read the correspondence and was found out, his mission would be at an end; his life might be as well. Still, he could remove the thong from the oilcloth without difficulty.
Amaury studied the simple ties on the strip of leather. He laid the packet on a table and undid the knot, memorizing the order in which the thong had been opened, to be repeated later in reverse. Lifting the folds of the oilcloth off in the same manner, he was faced with the packet of letters and the cipher of the Bartholomew’s knot. The knot appeared simple: a ball of red ribbon fastened with a floret tie on the top. But any attempt to open it without perceiving precisely how the ribbon had been looped and folded internally would render retying the knot without later detection impossible.
If science taught him anything, it was that any enigma could be deciphered with method and care. Giles’ murder, Routbourg’s, the corruption of Genesis, Giles’ chimerical diagram of astronomical movement: The solution to any or all of those riddles might well lie within the sheaf of papers that lay inches from his fingertips, protected by only a thin wrapper and a length of ribbon.
Amaury wiped his hands on his clothes. The ribbon could show no stain of perspiration or soil. He studied the floret: six loops and two ends. Three folds altogether. Amaury grasped the loose ends of the ribbon and tugged ever so slightly. They gave easily, shrinking the loops that had been fashioned last. No traps. Carefully, Amaury pulled on the ribbon ends until the floret was almost undone. He tried to study the ribbon balled underneath to determine whether he needed to place a finger on the top when he undid the floret entirely. No way to tell.
He pulled the ribbon the last bit. As the floret disappeared, the ribbon immediately underneath sprung open. It had been folded. But how many times? Two? No, three. Amaury studied the ribbon carefully to see where the fold marks were. There were none. But three folds for certain.
Another, smaller, floret lay underneath: two loops, two ends. He leaned down to look more closely. Shadows fell on the tied ribbon in candlelight. A twist. Under the floret. He could just make it out. He undid the ribbon once more, this time keeping a finger on the ties to discern which way the ribbon had been twisted before it sprung open and left him helpless. To the left.
It took thirty minutes for Amaury to work his way through the knot. Perhaps longer. He committed every fold, every twist, every order to memory. But eventually he was done. Could he retie the knot precisely as it had been done the first time? He would only know later. If he was still alive in a week, the answer was likely yes.
The contents were before him. The secret correspondence. The contents of these pages had already cost two lives. He wiped his hands one more time, then looked.
The pages were blank.
There were twelve in all. Not a single word on any of them. Nor had they been written on with invisible ink. Amaury held each page to the candle, shifting the angle. No depressions. No indication that any pointed object had ever touched even one of the pages.
What a fool he had been. No wonder Hoess had been so willing to trust him with their secrets. There were no secrets. At least in these pages. These pages had simply been a test to see if their bearer could be trusted. But Routbourg had been scheduled to go to Nérac before his murder. That much was uncontestable. Perhaps the real secrets were in the city itself. Or perhaps for the return trip. Nothing to do but complete the journey and watch and wait.
Amaury took at least twice as long to redo what he had undone. When he finally finished, he stared at the six-loop floret with which he had begun. He had painstakingly retraced each step. But whether his measurements were slightly off, like his sack in Madame La Framboise’s room, would only be known after the packet was delivered.
He refolded the oilcloth and tied the thong, returned the packet to the sack. He then lay down on the pallet tucked under the roofline, overtaken by a wave of profound loneliness.
Loneliness. A regular companion but no friend.
The next day they set out early, now traveling the road that ran along the north bank of the Loire. Two days later, they arrived in Tours. After spending the night at the home of a glassblower named Stéphane, they planned to set out early, just after Mass at Saint Gratian, the famed cathedral that had been called the most beautiful in Christendom.
When Amaury led Vivienne from the church, soldiers were waiting at the bottom of the steps, accosting and questioning parishioners as they headed into the square. Most were being herded off toward a road on the left. Amaury took Vivienne by the elbow and started off to the side, but three of the soldiers broke off from the group and stepped into their path.
“You two come with us,” barked the one in the middle. He was small and squat, with a livid scar that ran from the side of his forehead to the bottom of his jaw.
“Why?” Amaury asked. “We’ve done nothing.”
“Don’t ask questions,” the soldier snarled menacingly.
“But, sir,” Vivienne replied, as sweet as the soldier was gruff, “we must be on our way. We are on a pilgrimage to view the relics at Toulouse.”
“Relics can wait,” the soldier said, but in a decidedly more courteous tone. “The king has decided to visit his subjects in Tours. The royal procession is due. You get to see our liege, François I.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” Amaury exclaimed, a broad, excited smile bursting onto his face. “The king! God bless him and God bless you for allowing us the opportunity.” He turned to Vivienne, who was beaming as well. “The king, my dear.” Amaury returned his gaze to the soldiers. “Tell me, good man. Where is the route? I want to be there quickly to be sure of a good view.”
But the middle soldier was not as easily gulled as the priest in Pithiviers. “We shall escort you,” he said, with a smile for Vivienne. “We will even secure a place at the front.”
“How exciting,” she said. “Thank you, Captain.”
“Just a soldier, madame.”
As the soldiers led them to la grande rue, Amaury and Vivienne chattered on about the rare opportunity they had been afforded. But, to himself, Amaury cursed their bad luck. They would lose half a day at least.
The crowd was already four deep on the boulevard when they arrived. The entire city had been turned out, required to line the parade route and express devotion as François and his endless retinue passed. The wait would be hours.
The short soldier with the scar pushed people aside and secured places for Amaury and Vivienne at the front. Then he leaned in close. “Remember, you are to wave and cheer for the king. Failure to do so is grounds for arrest.” He straightened up, touched his hand to his forehead, bid farewell to Vivienne, then pushed back through the crowd to snare more unfortunates.
After they were gone, Amaury briefly considered trying to slip away, but soldiers and constabulary were everywhere, ensuring that not a single citizen would choose not to avail himself of the opportunity to view the royal person. He shared a glance with Vivienne and ventured a small shrug. Here they would stay.