THE NEXT MORNING, Amaury visited Fournière, the bookseller on rue des Bales. From the outside, Fournière’s was an unprepossessing establishment, a plain stone storefront on a small, grimy, narrow street at the rear of église Saint-Antoine, about a ten-minute walk from Madame La Framboise’s rooms on rue de la Cerise. But, as bibliophiles from across Europe were aware, behind the shabby exterior lay one of the finest establishments of its kind to be found anywhere on the continent. Many of Fournière’s wares—incunabula, rare manuscripts, works of early printers like Fust and Schoeffer, even a Catholicon from the great Gutenberg— were of such rarity and value that the shop could rightly have been called a museum.
Fournière himself was over sixty although no one seemed certain just how far over. He had a fringe of white hair, skin almost as pale, and was so bent that, without the stick that he used to lead him from place to place, he would certainly have pitched forward and lain helpless, commalike, on the floor. Although he lived only one floor above, Fournière spent little time in the shop, clunking through with a scowl two or three times a day to peruse the stock, muttering to himself as he went. He occasionally paused over a volume to check for dust or to ensure that the vellum or morocco covers had been polished with the special oil that prevented cracking or shrinkage. For the remainder of the time, Fournière remained invisible. Day-to-day operation was entrusted to Broussard, his assistant.
Broussard had persuaded the old man to hire him three years before, appealing to Fournière’s dual loves of indolence and loot. While preserving the antiquaria for which the establishment was known, Broussard brought a contemporary feel to the shop, adding the newest translations of Plato, Aristotle, and Thucydides from the printer Estienne, Fuchs’s herbals, agronomy texts, and the latest edition of Dürer’s Apocalypse. Broussard had cleared an entire section at the front of the shop to display the satires of Erasmus and Rabelais, the bestselling authors in Europe.
As a result, the shop now attracted a younger, more vigorous clientele, members of a well-heeled bourgeois class who had benefited from François’ obsession to build a younger, more vigorous Paris. Fournière grumbled even more than usual whenever he meandered through the sections of the shop that Broussard had modernized, but not so much as to eschew the additional revenues that his ambitious young assistant deposited in his coffers.
Broussard was near the front when Amaury walked in. He noticed the change at once. “Much more suitable,” he said, gesturing toward Amaury’s doublet, tights, and shoes. “An aberration or permanent?”
“Permanent. I have left. Finally.”
“Congratulations. Took you long enough. I always wondered why you went to such pains to please a father who wouldn’t even deign to acknowledge your existence. I never did.”
“You never had the opportunity. But you’re quite correct. It was, it seems, a fool’s errand run by a fool. When a father is displeased at the very birth of a son, there seems little that son can do to alter the feeling.” Broussard was one of the few to whom Amaury had confessed his lineage. Or rather the lack of it.
Broussard’s given name was Geoffrey. He was, in theory, the son of a French linen merchant and an English lady-in-waiting to Mary Tudor, Henry of England’s younger sister. A quarter century earlier, Mary, renowned as the most beautiful woman in Europe, had been married off to François’ predecessor, Louis XII, in order to provide a male heir. An odious chore, as Louis was thirty years her senior, bent, dyspeptic, and covered with scabies. But if Mary was successful, Henry would have a direct line to the French throne. She apparently discharged her responsibilities faithfully—Louis died two years later, succumbing, it was widely speculated, to sexual excess, but without producing a son. Mary immediately absconded with jewelry and gold, sneaking back across the channel with her true love, the Duke of Norfolk. Broussard’s mother had been left behind and tossed into a cell in the basement of the Louvre.
The new king, François, ever sensitive to a woman in distress, released her on the condition that she marry a Frenchman and remain in the country. Rumors abounded that François had exacted other conditions as well, rumors considerably enhanced by Geoffrey’s height, long nose, and prominent chin. Amaury had thus found a level of comfort with Broussard that was almost filial. All bastards were, in effect, only children.
“Come to the back,” Broussard said, taking Amaury by the elbow. “Now that you’re a free man, there’s something I want to show you.” He released his grip, but only to clap Amaury on the back. “Actually, I would have shown you anyway, but it’s more fun now. We can drink some of the old man’s ghastly wine to celebrate your release.”
Amaury followed Broussard to the back room. The walls were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A heavy wooden table and chairs sat in the center. In here, Fournière kept his most prized possessions. Amaury and Broussard had often passed time poring over a prized volume. Amaury had always been forced to cut short the visits so as not to be missed at Montaigu. Until now.
Broussard poured two cups of wine and delicately removed a thick folio, finely bound in white vellum, from a middle shelf. He placed it on the table, in front of Amaury.
“Go ahead. Look through it. I was holding it for you before I put it out. It’s Colines’ edition of Ruel’s De Natura Stirpium. If you want it, it’s yours. I’ll even give you the famous Fournière’s discount.”
“Nothing?”
Broussard shrugged. “A man must earn a living.”
Simon de Colines was one of the first of the French printers to produce works in the sciences. Amaury opened to the title page, an intricate arbor spun with grape vines over a fountain filled with flowering plants, designed by the great astronomer and mathematician Oronce Finé. Botany was not his field, but who could resist a work both beautiful and encyclopedic? The author, Jean Ruel, was physician to François, and this volume contained descriptions of six hundred plants, the most complete treatise of its kind ever produced in France.
“This is glorious,” Amaury said. Broussard stood over him, arms crossed, as proud as if he had printed the folio himself. “Is it the original?”
“No,” Broussard sighed. “Only a second edition. The first sold out instantly and is almost impossible to come by. This edition is quite difficult to acquire as well.”
“And therefore expensive?”
“What is good in life that does not come with a price?”
“And that is?”
“A quarter écu d or will do nicely.”
“Nicely for you, perhaps. But very well. Keep it here for the time being. I’m staying temporarily in a room on rue de la Cerise. I’m let you know when I make permanent arrangements.” Amaury looked about as Broussard returned the volume to the shelves. “You know, Geoffrey,” he said finally, “I have often noticed that, in an establishment of such extensive stock, there seemed a paucity of a certain variety of book.”
“And what type of book is that?”
“Theology seems to be vastly underrepresented.”
“Not at all,” Geoffrey demurred. “Why, just yesterday we received a shipment of Froben’s new edition of the works of Saint Augustine.”
“Meum testimonium subtile,” said Amaury. “My point exactly. Augustine is fourth century and will have little companionship on your shelves among farmers, physicians, and astrologers.”
Broussard stroked his long Valois chin, then took a drink of wine. “Are you certain you’re not spying for Montaigu?”
“Actually, I’m spying for the Inquisition. Ory himself recruited me. I insisted on a particularly energetic beating to defray suspicion.”
“Quite. But in times such as these, one must take care. It’s best to avoid flaunting one’s true beliefs.” Broussard rolled his eyes toward the ceiling that was the floor of Fournière’s bedchamber. “He is not in agreement, of course. He would have every one of the saints memorialized on the wall and a shrine to the pope in the doorway.”
“And you would have the works of . . . more recent religious philosophers?”
“Perhaps,” Broussard replied. “Although I have nothing against the Church. It is, however, difficult sometimes to see past the excesses. Your experiences at Montaigu, which you have so eloquently described, are but one extreme. The living standards of Church fathers in Rome are quite another.”
“Certainly true,” Amaury said. “I heard that one of the cardinals recently hosted a dinner of sixty-five courses, at the end of which a naked boy of thirteen leapt out of a cake.”
Broussard emitted a snort. “Im no student of Scripture, but I’II wager naked boys and cakes are not to be found in any biblical text, or perhaps I’ve been reading the wrong translation.”
“You are with the Reformers then?”
“One does not have to be with the Reformers to believe in reform.” “Indeed,” Amaury said.
“Have you gone with the Reformers? After nine years in the theology faculty?”
Amaury laughed. “Nine years. Yes. Sufficient to either guarantee one’s allegiance or his antipathy.”
“And in your case it was the latter?”
“I am finished with the Church,” Amaury answered, “if that’s what you are asking. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that I’m ready to throw my lot in with a group that may be no better.”
Broussard mused for a moment, his large brow furrowed. It looked like hedgerows. “Oh, but they are,” he said finally. “A good deal better.” Broussard placed his hand on Amaury’s shoulder. “Reform is a revelation, my friend. I would never have believed I could be so fervent about anything. Except money, of course.”
“Are you certain you are not simply rejecting your own past? Choosing a path only because it runs counter to what you were taught?”
“Quite certain. Reform is new. It’s young. It has swept away the stultification and corruption of centuries. We are the true religion, Amaury. The religion that Christ died for.”
“Perhaps,” Amaury allowed grudgingly. “But I have read some of the ‘new religion’ . . . was beaten for it . . . but I am, I confess, still dubious that the Lutherans have any more to say than the pope.”
“Anyone has more to say than the pope. Why don’t you come with me to listen? There is a meeting tomorrow. One of the new leaders of the movement will be speaking. Quite clever. Like you. You’ll find him stimulating if nothing else.”
“Perhaps. Just who is this exciting new leader?”
“His name is Jean Chauvin. He was forced to flee after running afoul of the Inquisition but has sneaked back into Paris just to address our group.”
“All right, Geoffrey. I’ll allow you to corrupt me. Where is this meeting of yours to take place?”
“The location is secret. Even I won’t know until tomorrow. Meet me here one hour after sundown, and I’ll take you. You’ll need me to vouch for you in any case. Come to the back door.”
“Conspiracy and Scripture. What better way to spend an evening?”
“Broussard will be your entrée into the Lutheran conspiracy, ” Ory had said. “It seems that not only were you purchasing heretical literature, but you were doing so from a heretic. Now you know why you are so perfectfor this assignment. Besides,” Ory had added, “we are almost certain Fabrizy came to the attention of the Lutherans through Broussard himself Fabrizy visited the shop regularly. As did you. ”
Amaury made to stand, but then stopped. “Oh, yes. I had almost forgotten. A mutual acquaintance of ours was killed. Stabbed. In a foolish street robbery, of all things.”
“Mon Dieu. One cannot take three steps in Paris these days without risking death. Who was it?”
“Giles Fabrizy. Another student. Young, but a wonderful scholar.”
Broussard pursed his lips, then placed an index finger on the point of his chin. “Fabrizy, you say?” He thought for a moment more, then shrugged and shook his head. “No. I don’t think I know him.”