PHILIPPE HAD REFUSED to speak. He had been beaten by both the onlookers and the gendarmes, then hauled across the plaza in front of the smoldering pyres, the smell of charred flesh filling his nostrils. Ory and some soldiers had set off in pursuit of Faverges. Philippe was puzzled as to why, if Faverges was Ory’s man, he had fled, and why Ory had then personally led the pursuit. Perhaps the playlet was a ruse to protect the informers identity. Perhaps now that the manuscript was in Ory’s hands, Faverges did not trust that the Inquisitor would not have him eliminated to protect the secret. But whatever the circumstances, Philippe had reconciled himself to never leaving this building alive. But far worse than the forfeiture of his own life was the knowledge that the cursed Savoyard had been clever yet again. Instead of Faverges lying in the street and Philippe on his way east, it was the other way round.
After some moments on the floor of the Conciergerie, kicked at by guards, Philippe had been dragged across the floor and thrown into a cell. He was expecting the dungeons, and so was surprised to be deposited aboveground in a cell with a pallet of straw on which to sleep. A bucket of clean water was in one corner. The accommodations even included a table with two chairs.
Philippes ribs ached terribly. Every time he breathed deeply, pain stabbed him in the side—ironic, he thought, for a man who killed with a knife. He had lost two teeth. He knew, however, not to lie down or to drink the water; not to become too comfortable in these lavish surroundings. The shock of torture would be that much worse. Instead he merely rinsed his mouth and sat in a chair to wait.
How had Ory known? The way the Inquisitor had yelled across the plaza, Philippe had no doubt he had been recognized. The priest? That a messenger from the south could have arrived here before him seemed impossible. More likely someone in Paris. Either another informer or a member of the Brotherhood who had been caught and tortured. Poor Broussard, most likely. He had never liked the bookseller, but that anyone should endure so hideous a death was an affront.
Philippe sat completely still, comforted by the throbbing in his ribs and the taste of blood in his mouth. His injuries left him feeling like a martyr. He should pray, he knew, but he felt that somehow prayer would lessen the significance of his sacrifice. He was, he realized, impatient to have his fate decided. If he must burn, let them get to it.
After some time had passed—Philippe could not be sure how much—he heard scuffling in the hall. Then the door opened and Ory walked in.
The Inquisitor entered alone, a soft, soundless walk, motioning for the door to be closed behind him. He stood for a moment opposite his prisoner, his expression placid, his eyes cold. Then he pulled out the other chair and sat across the table from Philippe.
“Tu es fortis vir,” he said softly, speaking in Latin. “You are a brave man. I admire such courage. I urge you to speak openly. If you answer my questions honestly, no harm will come to you.”
Philippe regarded the black-robed man. Torturer, murderer, defiler of the word of Christ. Now trying a new role. Trusted confidant. Philippe had prepared himself for torture; he had prepared himself for the flames; but flattery from the Inquisitor? He refused, however, to condescend to such foolishness. He merely sat and returned Ory’s stare.
“I don’t know why you are being so obdurate,” Ory went on. “We are, after all, working to the same ends, are we not? Protection of the True Faith from the corruption of the heretics.”
Then Philippe understood. He had not been betrayed. Ory had received no notice of a Lutheran assassin masquerading as a Franciscan. In fact, no one even knew Philippe was here. Ory, therefore, thought Philippe to be precisely what he appeared to be. A fanatical friar bent on assassination. Mad perhaps. But madness would only make him more appealing.
Philippe sharpened his gaze to bore into the Inquisitor’s eyes. Only a madman would do that, he thought. “I work to no one,” he grunted. “Only to God.”
“Of course,” Ory replied, his voice even more soothing. “I appreciate your zeal.”
“If you had not interfered, that heretic would already be on his way to Hell.”
“My apologies,” Ory said, heaving an exaggerated sigh. “Those fools in the crowd misunderstood my meaning. I wanted them to hold the heretic, not you. I could see from across the plaza that you were doing God’s work.”
Lord knew, Philippe felt grateful for the misunderstanding—if it was a misunderstanding, and not just a ploy to cause him to betray himself— but he was now more confused than ever. He could sort out his confusion later, however. He dared not let it show to Ory.
“And now? Who will do God’s work now?” He raised his right arm. “This was to be the instrument of God’s justice.” He scowled and shook his head.
“God’s justice may be delayed,” Ory said, “but you and I both know that the Lord is never denied.”
Philippe did not reply but rather waited, his eyes never losing their fire, never moving from Ory’s.
“I don’t see why either of us should be frustrated in our aims, Frère . . . ”
“Jean-Marie.”
“Frère Jean-Marie. All you need do is explain the circumstances that led you here.”
“I work to no man.”
“No, no, of course not. I only wish to fully understand the actions of one who so obviously sits in the light of God.”
Philippe made to consider the request, to be engaging in internal debate as to whether to confide in even so lofty a personage as the Inquisitor. “Very well,” he said finally. “The heretic’s name is Amaury de Faverges. I have been following him from Nérac. I nearly overtook him outside the city walls, but he is clever.”
“And the woman?”
“Hélène d Artigny de Mainz. Faverges has either persuaded or coerced her to help him in his plans.”
“That explains the cardinals letter,” Ory muttered, more to himself than to Philippe. “And what are his plans?” he asked his captive.
“I’m not certain. The blessed priest in Nérac told me that the heretic intended to perpetrate one of the greatest crimes ever against the True Church. If he succeeded, apocalypse could follow. That Faverges must be stopped at all costs. He entrusted me with the task . . . ”
“He chose well. But I heard that the authorities in Nérac believed Faverges and the woman to be headed to Savoy.”
So a messenger had arrived. “Initially, yes. That is what everyone believed. I told you Faverges was clever. Fortunately, the priest discovered the truth. I’m not certain how.”
Ory considered this. Philippe realized that perhaps a second messenger was on his way.
“This priest’s name?” the Inquisitor asked.
“Père Louis-Paul.”
“I believe I know him.”
“Confessor to Queen Marguerite. A thankless task that he performs with grace.”
“Thankless?”
“You of all people must know that her court is a hotbed of traitors and heretics.”
“Yes. It must have been a trial for a believer such as yourself to exist there. So what will you do now, Frère Jean-Marie?”
“In prison, you mean?”
“I mean if you were not in prison.”
“I would pursue this Faverges to the gates of Hell, but first I would need to find out his destination. I assume the cursed Lutherans will aid him in fleeing the city.”
“If I believed what you’ve told me, Frère Jean-Marie, perhaps God would have smiled on you after all.” The Inquisitor pushed back his chair. “But I don’t.”