AMAURY REMAINED for another hour. Conversation swirled about him. He should have been listening, he knew, trying to pick up some snippet of conversation that would help him proceed, but he heard almost nothing. Instead he participated mechanically, his eyes always returning to the same spot, a divan against the far wall.
Hélène. Like a sorceress. Brought to Nérac to unnerve and destroy him. Amaury resolved with all his strength that he would not allow her to do it again.
Eventually, Castell’buono entered. He was obviously well-known and well regarded. Even Rabelais greeted him warmly. As he made his way across the room, he stopped to greet Hélène. The Italian spoke with his back turned to him, but Amaury was certain that he was the subject. Before moving on, Castell’buono glanced briefly his way, smiled, and gave one small nod.
Amaury ignored some question or other about Paris as he watched Castell’buono move to Vivienne. She was surrounded by three young courtiers, but the Italian squeezed his way in to sit next to her. He spoke with his usual animation, eliciting smiles and laughter from all. Amaury felt himself redden as he watched Vivienne take in the Italian’s chatter with obvious enjoyment. After a few moments, Amaury felt eyes on him. He turned to see Hélène staring from across the room. When their eyes met, she excused herself from those with whom she was sitting, rose, and made her exit. She did not look at him again.
Amaury left soon afterward. He looked toward Vivienne, but she seemed to be at ease speaking with the courtiers. The Italian had vanished. When Amaury returned to his room to dress for dinner, however, Casteirbuono was waiting just outside the door. He motioned that they should speak inside.
“Well, Faverges,” he began, effusive as always, “beautiful women seem irresistibly drawn to you. Perhaps you might share your secret.”
“My lady and I are old friends,” Amaury mumbled. “We knew each other as children in Savoy.”
“I was told she seemed to give you quite a jolt.”
Had he been that obvious? “I was surprised to see her. That’s all.” “And the other one. Vivienne . . . d’Arras?”
“She was remarkable on the journey. I would not have made it here without her.”
“You have feelings for her then?”
“Of course. How could I not?”
Castell’buono sighed. “That means no. Just as well. She would complicate your life terribly.”
“I appreciate your concern, but I’m sure you have more pressing issues on your mind.”
“Yes. That’s true. I wanted first to thank you once more for the enormous service you did us. The risks you undertook were not in vain. The correspondence you brought held some invaluable information.”
“I’m gratified to have been of service.”
“Aren’t you curious what it contained?”
“Of course. But the essence of secrets is that they are not shared.” “Well, I’ll share this much with you. Our brothers in Paris have concluded that Henri Routbourg’s assassination is proof that the Inquisition has succeeded in planting a spy among us. Do you agree?”
“I’m hardly in a position to agree or disagree,” Amaury replied. “Although Giles Fabrizy’s killing would certainly indicate that some mischief is afoot.”
“You do not believe the murder of Fabrizy was the by-product of a robbery?”
“No.”
“Nor do I. He was killed for his political activities. Of that I am certain. Perhaps you would be kind enough to share with me in more detail what you know of both deaths? Also a fuller explanation of how you came to be here.”
Amaury again recounted the tale of his dismissal from Montaigu, Routbourg’s murder, and its aftermath. He was certain to make the second narration factually identical to the first. Castell’buono would be listening for inconsistencies. But he took equal care not to use the same phrasing, so it did not appear as if he were giving a recitation. Amaury claimed no real knowledge of the circumstances of Giles’ murder, except to repeat that it could hardly have been a coincidence. Through it all, Castell’buono listened carefully, occasionally wrinkling his brow, but not otherwise giving any indication whether or not he believed the account. When Amaury had finished, the Italian reached out and patted him on the shoulder.
“You were indeed fortunate to have been too fatigued to see Henri home. If you had been more energetic, we likely would not have met.”
Amaury didn’t reply.
“Faverges,” the Italian went on, “you seem to be a smart fellow. Where would you look for Ory’s agent?”
“Among your hierarchy.”
“I agree. Here?”
“There is no way for me to venture an opinion on that.”
“True enough. In my position, would you suspect yourself?”
“I would certainly suspect anyone whose activities could not be fully accounted for.”
“My sentiments precisely. And you were never curious as to the contents of the packet you were risking your life to transport?”
“I was always curious. Do you wish to show them to me now?”
“I’m afraid not. You’re an odd fellow, Faverges. You risk your life to help us, but yet you seem to lack allegiance to anything.”
Amaury began to deny the accusation, then stopped. “Perhaps I’m seeking something to have an allegiance to,” he said instead.
“Certainly true. More so than you think.”
“And you have some deeper insight?”
“Yes, I do. You’re a doubter.”
“A doubter? What do I doubt?”
“Everything.”
“I do not doubt God.”
“Not His existence, perhaps, but certainly you doubt His nature, or at least what you have been told of His nature by the doctors at Montaigu, or even the fanatics of Lutheranism.”
“Are you not a fanatic of Lutheranism?”
“That is a determination you must make for yourself.”
I will, Amaury thought. Aloud, he offered, “But is not doubting the only path to enlightenment?”
“It is one path, certainly,” Castell’buono admitted, “but tortured. For you, my dear Faverges, I suspect life is a continual search for meaning. After all, how can a doubter ever be sure of anything? I am fascinated by doubters. I, myself, have few doubts. Many questions, perhaps, but few doubts.”
“Questions. Doubts.” Amaury gave a backhand wave. “There is no difference. This is rhetoric without substance.”
“Oh, no,” Castell’buono said with a single shake of his head. “There is a very great difference. Those who question—like me—seek solutions. And as such—in wanting to find truth—we can then recognize it when we see it. Doubters—like you—can never find truth, because . . . ”
“We doubt its existence.”
“Precisely. As a questioner, I have found a set of beliefs in which I find complete comfort, to which I can pledge both my life and my soul. Have you ever found such comfort?”
“And if you are not a fanatic of Lutheranism, what is it that you believe in so strongly?” Amaury asked, rather than admit to Castell’buono that he was correct.
“God, of course. But also nature. Science. What greater evidence of Gods glory exists than the wonders of the world around us? What makes wheat grow? How do currents appear in the sea? How do the stars remain in the heavens? Misguided zealots would have us believe that the answers are found in some agonized construction of Scripture. I do not. I believe that they are mysteries that God created for Man to solve.”
Amaury might have used those precise words to Giles. “And why does God take such pains?” he asked.
“To give life meaning, of course! To give Man a reason to exist other than simply to spend his years in worship. Performing ridiculous rituals that mean nothing. Superstition. My word, Faverges, is that the sort of God you believe in?”
Of course he didn’t, but Amaury was not about to cede the Italian the advantage.
“You seem to know everything, Monsieur Castell’buono. Then I suppose you know why Giles Fabrizy and Henri Routbourg were killed.”
“As a matter of fact, I do. Precisely why.”
“But you will not tell me.”
“Not quite yet.”
“Would it have anything to do with why you didn’t show up for your meeting with Monsieur Calvin?”
Castell’buono allowed a slow smile to cross his face. “Very good, Faverges. You show depth. I’m relieved not to be wasting my time with you. But to answer your question . . . no. My absence in no way caused or hastened Henri’s death. Although if I had known he was in such peril, I would certainly have attempted to save him.”
“Calvin said that you would destroy Christianity altogether.”
“Yes. I’m sure he did.”
Should he take the risk? Why not? “By denying Genesis.”
“How silly,” Castell’buono replied with a dismissive wave. “Genesis is the word of God. No believer in Christ would do such a thing.”
“How then?”
“You would have to ask Calvin that.”
“You speak of Routbourg with affection and Calvin with derision. I thought the two were allies.”
“A fair conclusion, but totally incorrect.”
“Is it not possible, then, that Calvin’s allies were responsible for Routbourg’s death and not the Inquisition?”
“Another fair conclusion, but, no, it is not possible.”
“So where you do stand in all of this? What is your role here?”
“I am . . . a sort of adviser. The queen believes that Lutherans seek merely to worship freely within Catholic France. I am here to help bring that about.”
“A noble ambition.”
“But hopelessly naïve. What the queen cannot comprehend is that France will never tolerate two religions. One will flourish and the other, inevitably, will be stamped out. If we are on the losing side, we can expect only blood and flames. France will continue Catholic until the king finds some advantage in divorcing himself from the pope. The queen herself will never disavow Catholicism. It thus becomes a matter of endurance. If we can maintain our position, no matter how tenuously, as the tide shifts across Europe, François might one day conclude it suits his purposes to turn France Lutheran. If not . . . ” Castell’buono shrugged.
“Why are you so open and honest with me, Monsieur Castell’buono? You have all but announced that you don’t trust me.”
“I don’t. But one has to take risks to attain rewards.”
“How do you know I won’t simply report every thing you’ve told me to Queen Marguerite? I expect she would be none too pleased at your ideas.”
“She would not. That’s true. I tell you because I think you’re an intelligent man and would be a valuable ally. I tell you because you believed everything I said, even if you are loath to admit it. I tell you because it will change you from doubter to questioner and be your salvation.”
“Assuming I am not a spy.”
Castell’buono laughed. “A spy? You? For whom? The king? Calvin? The Inquisition? You would be a terrible choice.”
Despite himself, Amaury felt distinctly insulted. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you are a doubter. Haven’t you been listening? Doubters can never be trusted to maintain loyalty. They are too prone to rejecting one philosophy and moving to another.”
“I might have done it for money.”
The Italian shrugged. “Wouldn’t matter. If you lost your belief in whomever employed you, you would ultimately betray them rather than those whom you had come to embrace.”
“Thank you,” Amaury muttered. “Its nice to know that I should avoid spying as a profession.”
“Don’t worry. It’s not much of a profession anyway.” Castell’buono moved for the door. “It’s getting late, Faverges. I have to dress for dinner. We must speak again later.”
“Yes. We must. By the way, is Philippe my servant while I’m here? Or yours?”
“He is at your service, if you need him.”
Amaury nodded. “He seems rather serious as compared to . . . ”
“Me? Yes, I suppose he is. But do not judge Philippe too harshly. He was among the Franciscan order for fifteen years. It has left its mark.”
“A Franciscan, you say?”
“Do you find something odd in that?”
“No. Not odd at all.”
“After all, you were at Montaigu, as was Fabrizy. Didn’t Montaigu leave a mark on you?”
True enough, thought Amaury after the Italian had departed. But neither of us had been seen by Veuve Chinot in an alley wearing a Franciscan cloak, standing over a dead body, holding a bloody knife.