AMAURY AND HÉLÈNE rode for hours before Amaury began to feel safe. The water and food, pedestrian as it was, had done wonders. His strength was returning. The pain had abated sufficiently to allow him to realize how much he itched from the lice. Every hour he grew more fit, more able to discharge the task he had set for himself.
Hélène knew as well. She turned to him often now, smiling at what she saw.
“Why did you come, Hélène?” he asked finally. “What do you want?”
“What I have always wanted. What I wanted that day in the field. Do you remember?”
“I have never forgotten.” She was beautiful and regal astride the horse. “The years have been kind to you. You are even lovelier than I remember.”
Hélène smiled ruefully. “Thank you, Amaury. You always appealed to my vanity. I suppose I demanded it. I’ve learned, however, how shallow a gratification that can be. The years, you see, have not been at all kind to me.”
“Why? What happened?”
“It began soon after you left. As you know, your father had accepted a proposal on my behalf from Duke Joseph of Austria. It was an excellent match for Savoy and it gave Joseph’s father a Catholic ally buffering France.”
“Yes,” Amaury replied. “Your betrothal to that fool was why I left.”
“I thought your father banished you.”
“Only from court. After the affair with the Hungarian. When you refused to look at me.”
“I didn’t refuse, Amaury. I was afraid to. Afraid that if I looked at you even for a second, I would have run to you. If that happened . . . a marriageable maid, a political bargaining tool, in love with a—”
“Bastard.”
“Yes. Your father would have been furious. And he would have blamed you. I wasn’t certain that even your life would not have been at risk.”
“Yes,” he conceded. “I suppose you were right. Ironic, though. When I told him that I had chosen to attend university in Paris, he was actually pleased with me. For once. He told me that if I completed study at Montaigu, he would petition the pope for a decree of legitimacy. I would finally be Amaury de Savoie. Of course, by that time, Amaury de Savoie would have no opportunity with Hélène d’Artigny. You would be with another.”
“But surely you knew I had no say in his decision?”
“You didn’t seem displeased by it.”
“Whether I was pleased or displeased was of no concern to anyone. I would eventually be betrothed to someone. Even legitimate, marriage to you would have been out of the question.”
“Awareness that a phenomenon exists and experiencing it are two very different things.”
“Perhaps. In any case, I was actually relieved at the match. Vienna is a fine city and Joseph was two years my senior with a reputation for piety and bravery.”
“An inane dimwit.”
Hélène smiled. “That he was. But, as I learned, there are traits far worse. You see, I never married Joseph. At the last minute, his father sent word that he had withdrawn his approval. He claimed the dowry was insufficient, or some such nonsense, but, in truth, he had turned his attention east and had betrothed Joseph in secret to Princess Elisabeth of Poland.”
“Withdrew? One can’t simply withdraw from a betrothal. The scandal must have been immense. How is it that I didn’t hear of it, even in Paris?”
“There was no scandal. Joseph’s father sent five thousand gold florins to your father to ensure that there would be no scandal.”
“And my father accepted? He allowed you to be dishonored? He couldn’t have. Not even him. There must have been more to it.”
“There was no more. Of that I can assure you. But don’t judge him harshly on that account. He had no choice. Joseph’s father contacted François and agreed to sign a pact pledging mutual support against the Emperor Charles if François would agree to support the Polish union. François thus gained a buffer against Charles in Germany, and Joseph’s father achieved the same end as if he’d married his son to me. If your father opposed them, he’d have been squeezed between two new enemies.”
“What of you, then?” Amaury asked. “Whom did you marry?”
Hélène scowled. “A monster . . . although no one suspected so at the time. Your father had to find someone for me quickly, you see, and Wilhelm of Mainz, old Frederick’s son, was available. A staunch Catholic, of course. After the wedding, I soon found out why he was available.”
Amaury waited.
“He didn’t prefer me,” she said. “He preferred his servant. All of his attendants were young, handsome boys. One was only twelve. After we had consummated the union, except for rare occasions when Wilhelm was too drunk to care that a woman was his bedmate, we had a marriage in name only.” A small, sarcastic smile crossed her lips. “He was, however, quite intelligent.”
“I’m so sorry, Hélène. I’ve spent more than a few hours cursing my fate, but yours was so much worse.”
“It was glorious to see you, Amaury. When that girl, Vivienne, mentioned the name of her traveling companion, I thought I must be hearing spirits. I’ve never stopped thinking of you, of what our lives would have been like if we were together.”
“And now we are.”
“Yes. Now we are. God has finally used circumstance to reward me.”
“You really remember that day in the field?”
“Oh, yes. And you see now that I was correct. I always do get what I want in the end. Although it took a bit more time than I anticipated.”
“Thank God for your perseverance.”
“Yes. Even better, I am now a rich, childless widow. Frederick paid me, quite handsomely, not to discuss his son’s . . . proclivities. Wilhelm was good for that, anyway. Since I am no longer suitable as a strategic pawn, I can do as I please.”
“And your pleasure is to bribe guards, conduct jailbreaks, and involve yourself in an intrigue that might well cost you your life.”
“Precisely. All those are indeed my pleasure. As are some other things when all of this is done.”