PÈRE ÉTIENNE SHUFFLED toward the Conciergerie. A timid creature, he both loved and feared the cardinal. Loved because he had never known a man within whom the Lord so obviously resided; feared because his superior’s goodness came directly from God and so the cardinal often ignored the dictates of lesser forces, sometimes even the Holy Father himself. For fifteen years, Père Étienne had planted himself firmly in the cardinal’s shadow: indispensable, omnipresent, and invisible. Père Étienne knew he would never rise above his present position, but lack of advancement mattered to him not one whit. When the Lord called the cardinal to his bosom, Père Étienne would enter a monastery. Carthusian most likely, where he could spend his remaining days in prayer without the necessity of chattering with his fellows. Père Étienne was a man who knew his own soul; he was perfectly suited for quiet, secure servitude. The cardinal knew as well and had never asked his loyal subordinate to perform any task for which he was ill equipped.
Until now.
The priest toyed with the sealed letter he was holding under his cloak. If he didn’t shift it in his hands, perspiration from his palms would soak onto the paper. He felt at the raised seal, trying to gain comfort from the cardinals signet, pretending that the dried wax was an embodiment of the man himself. He breathed a prayer of penitence for his distortion of transubstantiation.
“You must take it, Étienne,” the cardinal had told him before dawn. “Faverges cannot. If he is recognized he will be instantly arrested. My niece is also unsuitable. A woman would not be believed as a courier. I would take the letter myself, but the presence of a cardinal at the prison would arouse more suspicion than our little cabal can bear.”
“Very well, Your Eminence,” Père Étienne had replied. His acquiescence, however, was distinctly without enthusiasm.
D’Aubuisson had patted him gently on the shoulder. “That’s a good lad. We are all in your debt.” The cardinal always called him “lad” when the task was unpleasant. Étienne was forty. “When the man, Broussard, is released to your custody, you will see him, Faverges, and my niece to église Saint-Martin and then return here. Do you understand?”
“Of course, Your Eminence.”
So he had set out, the cardinal’s niece and the Savoyard with whom she traveled a discreet distance behind. Père Étienne had spent his life able to discharge any duty without a second thought, secure in the knowledge that the power and majesty of the Church was behind him. On this occasion, however, he felt as if he walked alone. He was unused to the sensation and it frightened him. What would he do if events did not transpire precisely as His Eminence assumed they would? If he had to make a decision on his own? If, the Lord forbid, a creative solution was needed to a problem? Père Étienne could not remember a creative act in his entire life.
Once or twice he had glanced over his shoulder to check if the man and woman were still in eyeshot. Each time he did so, they seemed uncomfortable. Just before the bridge to Cité, he turned and saw that they had vanished. Père Étienne realized this was to discourage him from turning to look. He felt himself blush. To be reproved like a child.
Finally he arrived at the prison. The place de la Pays, across from the building, was already packed with citizens of Paris. Four stakes set in bundles of wood and twigs awaited four of the pitiful condemned, and devotees of such affairs had taken no chances on being deprived a prime view. Louts, misanthropes, and drunks—even at such an hour—packed the square. Those of means as well. Even some families. Festivity was in the air. Bread, cheese, and sausage were shared among the onlookers, washed down with wine from large jugs passed through the crowd.
Père Étienne surveyed the throng, then forced his way to the front gate of the Conciergerie. The foul-smelling gendarmes who usually stood watch at the entrance were nowhere to be seen. Instead, the king’s guard stood as sentinels. Père Étienne felt his innards roil. Secular authority terrified him. But, mercifully, he managed to keep the sensation under control and he was able to address one of the guards.
“I have been sent with a communication from Cardinal d’Aubuisson. A matter of the highest urgency. Please fetch whoever is in charge.” Père Étienne removed the letter and waved it in front of him. He felt ridiculous. No man was less suited to intrigue. He wanted to peruse the crowd once more, to find Faverges and the woman. Have them take over this foolishness. But the cardinal would hardly have been pleased.
The soldier looked the priest up and down. He was a swarthy, steely-eyed fellow; square-jawed, with the bearing of a man always on the verge of killing another. Without a word, he cocked his head at one of his comrades. The second soldier nodded and walked toward the hall that led to the interior. Père Étienne was left staring at the man he had addressed. The priest was also unused to being in the presence of someone not cowed by the power of the Church. He felt the need to glance to his feet, but knew that, representing the cardinal, he must not back down.
A few minutes later an officer appeared, striding ahead of the soldier who had been sent to fetch him. This man was fair-haired with quick blue eyes and an air of culture. Père Étienne breathed easier. Clearly, here was someone who could be spoken to.
“I’m Captain Beaufort,” the man said. He spoke in Latin. Père Étienne beamed. “What is this vital communication from the cardinal?”
Père Étienne handed the captain the letter. The captain broke the seal and removed the paper inside, reading quickly. “This says that the heretic Broussard is to be transported to the Louvre for interrogation. In your custody.”
Père Étienne nodded.
The captain considered the request. “You’ll have to clear this inside. The executions were to begin within the hour.”
“I must go . . . with you?”
“Of course,” the captain said. “Do you expect my superiors to come to you?”
The captain turned and marched toward the interior of the building. Père Étienne hesitated for a moment, then, repressing the urge to turn and run from the vile place, slowly followed.
Twice the captain had to stop and wait for Père Étienne to catch up. By the time they reached a large corridor across the courtyard, the captain was making no effort to hide his impatience. Damn Churchmen. They thought the world must move at their pace. Finally, the captain came to a door. He swung it open and strode inside with the letter. The captain closed the door behind him, leaving Père Étienne standing in the hall.
A few moments later, the captain swung the door open again. “Come in, Father,” intoned a smooth voice from inside. “Let us chat.”
Père Étienne stepped across the threshold. Behind a desk across the room, under a large cross on the wall, at least eight feet high, sat the black-robed figure of Mathieu Ory, Inquisitor of France. Ory held the cardinal’s letter in his hands.
“Close the door, Father,” Ory said easily. “Come and sit.”
Père Étienne padded across the room and sat in the chair opposite the desk. Ory had not moved. After the priest was settled in his seat, Ory made to read the letter, slowly and methodically, although he had quite clearly read through the contents just moments before. When he had finished, he placed the letter on the desktop, then carefully smoothed the paper with both hands.
“An odd communication from His Eminence, wouldn’t you say?” Ory had furrowed his brow, but his eyes betrayed no confusion at all.
“I don’t concern myself with such questions, Magister,” Père Étienne replied. “I simply do as the cardinal instructs.”
“So you are unaware of the reason for this request?”
“As I said . . .
“A letter signed by a cardinal has the authority of the Holy Father himself behind it,” Ory went on. “A surprising amount of prestige to bring to bear for a heretic bookseller.”
“As I keep assuring you, Magister . . . ”
“Even a man in my position dare not disobey such an order. Still, I do find it curious that His Eminence would wish to add the task of interrogating criminals to his already more than ample duties. Does he suspect that I am not discharging my responsibilities adequately?”
“I am certain that is not the case.” Père Étienne felt a rivulet of perspiration from his armpit run down his side.
“Perhaps, then, he seeks to join us in our holy duties. Eliminating heresy is, after all, God’s work.”
“I do not question His Eminence’s motives.”
“Of course not.”
Ory lifted the letter once more. “I expect that you are waiting for the heretic Broussard to be brought to you, so that you may transport him to the cardinal. You would require an escort, would you not?”
An escort? How could he then take Broussard to the church? But Père Étienne knew better than to refuse. “If you would be so kind as to provide one.”
“Actually, Father, that will not be necessary.” Quite casually, Ory grasped a corner of the paper in either hand, then tore the letter in half, then in half again, after which he allowed the pieces to drop to the desk.
Père Étienne watched the paper settle on the desktop with astonishment. Never, in almost two decades, had he seen a high Church communication treated with such contempt. He glanced from the paper to Ory, then back to the paper.
Ory observed the scene with obvious amusement. “You are shocked, Father. Appalled. The explanation is simple. I work to king and Church. Cardinal d’Aubuisson, at least in this endeavor, works to neither. The cardinal’s liberal proclivities are well known. Why he has identified with this particular heretic I am not aware. Although I intend to find out. What I do know is that he wishes to undermine a Holy Crusade that seeks to rid France of the Lutheran pestilence. Rome shall know of his actions.
“As for you, Father, I suggest you scuffle on back to your master and inform him that his game has failed. The heretic Broussard will feel God’s justice this very morning. If His Eminence wishes to further contest the point, I will be right here.”
Ory placed his hands palms down on the desktop. “Now get out.”