A MAURY AND HÉLÈNE were now sufficiently close to the coast that any storm that had broken on them had also struck on the Ostsee, what in France was known as the Mer Baltique. Amaury was therefore exultant to feel the wind and rain pelting his face. The wind would also be in the face of any craft attempting to move east. One night in Elbing, then on to their destination.
Elbing was a star-shaped city, modern by eastern standards, protected by inner and outer walls and a moat fed by the river it straddled. A large cathedral dominated its center. The river, also called the Elbing, fed the Frisches Haff—“fresh lake” in German—a virtually enclosed lagoon on which, to the north and east, sat Frauenburg.
Although now within the Polish kingdom, Elbing had been a part of the Order of Teutonic Knights, and thus most of the citizenry still communicated in German. Hélène had no difficulty obtaining directions to an inn gastfreundlich—hospitable—that catered to the upper classes. They were greeted at the door by a scowling woman as dirty as they were, almost as pungent as the wet wool of their cloaks. She guided them up a set of stairs to a room that would have been sneeringly dismissed by a vegetable merchant in Paris. The woman stood in the doorway for a moment then started to leave before Amaury stopped her.
“Tell her we each require a bath,” he told Hélène.
“Wir wollen jedem Bad,” Hélène said to the woman.
The woman stiffened as if she had been told Amaury had horns and a tail. “Bittet” she asked.
Hélène repeated the sentence, enunciating each word carefully.
“Italiener” she asked. “Italians?”
“Französisch,” Hélène replied. “French.”
The woman shook her head in wonder. There were no facilities for bathing at the inn, she told them, but her husband could arrange to bring buckets of water warmed by the large fire in the kitchen.
“That will have to do, I suppose,” Amaury conceded. “Ask her if she has any soap.”
The woman didn’t, but agreed to fetch some at the apothecary. Amaury thanked her and gave her some coins, which, from the woman’s expression, was more than enough for the room, the food, the bath, and even the trip in the rain to the apothecary.
It took more than an hour and nine buckets of warm water before Amaury and Hélène had cleaned themselves. The soap had been coarse and caustic but left the skin tingling. It was not Nérac, but at least most of the grime had been deposited in the buckets and sent out the rear of the inn.
When the last of them had been handed out and hauled away, Amaury and Hélène moved to the fire to dry themselves. They sat on the floor wrapped in bearskin, feeling the heat pour out of the hearth, allowing themselves to be entranced by the flickering light. At the same moment, each turned to face the other.
“I have loved you from the first moment I saw you,” Amaury told her.
“And I you.”
“I’m more content sleeping in the woods with you than if I were sitting on the throne of Savoy. More than if I were king.”
She slid closer to him until their shoulders touched. “I’ve spent my life trying to find things to make up for being so desperately unhappy. Now I need only you.”
“We will come through this, Hélène. I cant believe God has finally brought us together only to tear us apart once more.”
“No God would be so cruel.” She moved around him so that their faces were inches apart. “I love you, Amaury.”
They kissed and fell into each others arms, then made love in front of the fire, suspended, for those moments, in time and space.
When they finally went downstairs and presented themselves for dinner, everyone—innkeeper, servants, and the six other guests—stared at these French with their foolish obsession with cleanliness. To Amaury and Hélène, their fellow guests were more suited to a barn than an inn. They were surprised, then, to learn that one of the men was a minor noble and another a steward to the local count.
The food, however, was a pleasant surprise, a stew rich with turnips and perfectly cooked pork. The wine was passable. As the only foreigners at the table, a man and woman traveling without escort or servants, they were an object of curiosity.
“We are heading to Frauenburg,” Hélène told them finally. She had not wanted to reveal anything of their plans, but the questions would not stop.
“Ah!” said the steward. “To visit the cathedral. A stunning Gothic structure. Three centuries old. Well worth the trip.”
“No, no,” grunted another, a massive man with an equally massive wart on his forehead. “I’II warrant they’re on their way to visit the mad canon.” His lifted his rheumy eyes to theirs. “Right?”
Hélène glanced to Amaury who, while unable to understand the man, understood the challenge of the expression. She did not reply to the question but instead returned to her food.
“He seems very popular these days with you people,” the man went on.
“You people?” Hélène asked.
“French.”
“And why popular?”
“Just yesterday another man was asking about him. Skinny fellow. Came off a boat. Heading to the Frisches Haff. Only spoke French. Had to find someone to translate. Didn’t ask for a bath, though.” The man chuckled at his wit. “I told him that overland was faster from here, but he insisted on the boat. Didn’t seem like the type to visit the crazy old hermit, but you never know.”
Hélène translated for Amaury. The noble obviously spoke French as well, because he listened attentively and became even more attentive when Amaury reacted with alarm.
“Pas un de vos amis?” the noble asked Amaury. “Not a friend of yours?”
Amaury considered whether or not to reveal the threat to the astronomer’s life. If he did, how would it be received? With outrage and offers to help to protect a respected local citizen? Or suspicion and xenophobia, causing Amaury and Hélène to be detained whilst their story was checked? A delay that could result in the very outcome they had traveled three weeks to prevent?
“I cannot claim friendship or enmity with someone I do not know, monsieur,” Amaury replied.
He and Hélène tarried a few more minutes at the dinner table, then excused themselves. As soon as they were clear of the room, he whispered to her, “We must leave now.”
“Yes,” she replied. “I know.”
Back in their room, they dressed as warmly as they could, ready for a night ride in rain and wind. At least they would ride unmolested. No bandit would waste his time venturing out on such a night.
When they went downstairs, the innkeeper’s wife was puttering about. “You are leaving now? In this storm?”
“Yes, madame,” Hélène told her. “We will return in two days.” She paid the woman, once again far more than two days’ board would require.
The woman stood watching as Amaury and Hélène walked out the door. At the stables, they retrieved their possessions. The wind had picked up. The rain was coming in sheets. Hélène donned her second cloak and wrapped herself tightly.
Then they climbed aboard their mounts and set out.