Remy watched with Jehan quietly from the edge of the courtyard as the riders arrived at the Archbishop’s palace. They kept to the side, blending with the murmuring crowd that had gathered to witness the procession. Jehan, with her hood drawn close around her face, leaned toward him and whispered, “They certainly know how to bring people. Pray tell, Sir Remy, why is it that you do not have companions? A page? A squire?”

  It was a fair question. Even with all the weight of the steel he carried, and the calm confidence that often discouraged confrontation, there were always dangers on the road. A well-organized band of thieves could overpower a lone knight, strip him of his gear, and ransom him back to France. Yet, he knew that a large company attracted as much risk as protection.

  He had learned that lesson in Toledo that it was better to travel with a few strong men than with a crowd of unreliable mouths.

  “I prefer it that way,” he said simply. “Despite the dangers.”

  “Despite losing your boots?” she asked dryly.

  “Despite it,” he replied with a faint grin.

  That particular mishap had been a one-time affair he could not forget. During his travels, when forced to camp alone, he often made a habit of climbing trees and hanging his hammock out of sight. He remembered well the fools who had approached him at night, only to be met with the full weight of thirty-five kilograms of steel crashing down upon them. He doubted any of them ever forgot it. And truth be told, the roads he chose were seldom empty with merchants and pilgrims alike filled them, their numbers ensuring that true solitude was rare.

  Jehan glanced at him again, her brow furrowed. “Then do you truly believe the situation warrants enough for this? To interfere in the affairs of the Church?”

  “Am I interfering?” he said mildly. “Do not misunderstand. I am simply meeting and greeting these wise men of standing.”

  Jehan pressed her lips together, biting back whatever retort she had. She always had one, she just rationed them carefully.

  They returned to the palace soon after. Jehan excused herself to her studies, carrying her small bundle of books and papers, while Remy lingered in the hall. He hesitated a moment, then turned toward the corridor that led to the Archdeacon’s quarters.

  The guards standing by the archway straightened as he approached. He was a tall figure in a deep blue cloak, his plate armor beneath his surcoat. His presence alone made men wary. The Archdeacon himself stood among several attendants, his gaze sharp, assessing the stranger who now drew near.

  Remy offered him a courteous nod. The Archdeacon’s brow creased slightly as he took in the man’s bearing.

  “I am the Noble Lord Lucien of the House of Valois,” Remy said in smooth, even Latin, his voice carrying across the room. “Knight and Soldier of Christ, recognized in papal bull, by the letter of Martin the Fifth, and bearer of the badge of Pope Eugenius the Fourth.”

  The Archdeacon’s expression shifted, the faintest trace of surprise beneath his composure. “I have seen the bull of Martin and the seal of Eugenius. Few can claim both. So you are the Chevalier who has made himself known in these parts?”

  “That I am,” Remy replied.

  The man inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Ladislaus Csetneki,” he said. “Archdeacon of Esztergom. Chancellor to Queen Barbara of Cilli. Bound in service to King Sigismund of Luxembourg.”

  “So I heard,” said Remy.

  Csetneki stepped closer, studying him with open curiosity. “Pray tell and honestly what brings a man of Valois blood, legitimized by papal bull, and thus with claim enough to a throne, to this city?”

  Remy laughed lightly. “I am a soldier of Christ, nothing more. My mission is to find my way to the Holy Land. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  The Archdeacon relaxed a fraction, the stiffness in his shoulders easing. Considering the troubles the kingdom faced, the Hussites, the feuding nobles, the uncertainty of Sigismund’s reign, a knight carrying two papal symbols could easily have been seen as a threat, or worse, a messenger of foreign intrigue.

  They began to walk side by side, speaking in Clerical Latin, much to the quiet bewilderment of the Archdeacon’s Hungarian escorts who trailed behind.

  True to the Archbishop’s warning, Csetneki’s manner was that of a man taking measure, weighing every word, every gesture. He spoke often of his king, of Hungary’s struggles against heretics and rebels. He spoke of the Hussites, their defiance of the Church, their violence, their perversion of reform.

  Remy listened, offering little beyond measured replies. He held no strong opinion on the Hussites, not outwardly. Inwardly, he wondered only whether the Lord Himself approved of such conflict between those who claimed to serve Him.

  “For a man who carries two papal symbols,” said Csetneki after a while, “you speak lightly of them.”

  “Do not mistake me,” Remy said evenly. “I respect them both, they are men of the Lord. But I am a soldier of Christ. My faith lies not in the words of men, but in God’s will, as I understand it.”

  “I fail to understand how a man such as yourself earned these symbols,” the Archdeacon said, his tone more puzzled than accusatory.

  Remy smiled faintly. “Conviction and faith can be seen clearly, Archdeacon. As they say, action speaks louder than words.”

  Csetneki studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. The conversation drifted on, from the Hussites to the authority of the Church, to the Council of Basel and the divisions it sowed. Remy’s words remained careful, balanced, never aligning too closely with either side, preferring instead to linger in the quiet middle ground where truth often hid.

  He had no desire to tilt history in any direction he could not recognize.

  When at last they parted, it was with polite civility. The Archdeacon, seemingly satisfied that Remy was no more than a pilgrim resting from his long road, offered a courteous bow before departing.

  Remy stood for a moment, watching him go, then turned back toward the quiet corridors of the Archbishop’s palace.

  He could not yet tell whether the man was honest or merely shrewd, but in either case, he had done what the Archbishop had asked. He had met the first of the two men.

  And he had been measured.

  Remy had been on his way to seek out Giles Carlier, but the man found him first. One glance was all it took, the familiarity in Giles’s eyes was unmistakable. One glance was all it took. Their eyes met across the cloister, sunlight spilling between the stone arches, and in that moment Remy knew that the man remembered him, or at least knew of him.

  Giles approached with a deliberate calmness, a scholar’s poise masked beneath the velvet sleeves of a cleric’s gown. “Lord Lucien,” he said, bowing his head slightly in courtesy. “I did not think I would find you in this city.”

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  Remy studied him for a moment. His own mind, sharp and disciplined, did not easily forget faces. Giles Carlier had the kind of countenance one recalled easily, a long, thoughtful face with narrow eyes, a calm voice that betrayed both intellect and the faintest undercurrent of pride.

  “My duties in Spain and Rome were cared for,” Remy replied.

  Giles gave a small smile. “France would have benefited had you been there. The English might have been beaten and the Maid would have lived.”

  Remy’s expression did not change. “I doubt it,” he said quietly. “I do not think a single man could have changed that. And if you know of me, or have heard what others say, then you must also know I care little for the throne that so many have died for.”

  He straightened, offering the formality expected between men of standing. “I am the Noble Lord Lucien of the House of Valois,” he said in his smooth French, his voice carrying evenly in the still air. “Knight and Soldier of Christ, recognized in papal bull, by the letter of Martin the Fifth, and bearer of the badge of Pope Eugenius the Fourth.”

  The formality did not impress Giles so much as it confirmed what he already knew. He inclined his head again, smoothing the folds of his robe as if out of habit. “I have come as envoy from the Council of Basel,” he said. “And I have heard of your talents from many who praise you — as warrior, priest, scholar, and healer.”

  Remy resisted the urge to scoff. He found the praise distasteful. Not for the flattery itself, but because it was misplaced. He was no genius. He simply possessed knowledge centuries beyond these men, the cumulative understanding of generations yet unborn. It gave him an advantage, yes, but no cause for arrogance. In truth, men like Giles, given proper learning and the tools of a later age, would surpass him with ease.

  Giles, however, looked at him with earnest conviction as he continued what he thought. “It is because you do not desire power, Lord Lucien,” he said, “that I find you worthy of it. It is a shame that you would rather bear the symbols of the Roman Curia than the banner of France.”

  There was disappointment in his tone, not personal, but philosophical, as though he grieved for a waste of potential.

  Remy shrugged, the faint clink of his armor the only sound between them. He did not answer immediately. They began to walk through the corridor, the echo of their footsteps joining the distant hum of voices and bells.

  Giles spoke again after a pause. He had the kind of mind that could not rest in silence. “You must know,” he said in French, “that the Archbishop regards me with suspicion. He thinks of me as a man of danger, one who invites thought rather than obedience.”

  “That sounds like a fair assessment,” Remy said dryly.

  A faint smile flickered on Giles’s lips. “Perhaps,” he conceded. “But thought, my milord, is not rebellion. It is the first form of devotion. To think deeply is to approach truth and truth, if it is divine, cannot be wounded by questioning.”

  Remy gave a quiet hum in response. He had no quarrel with men like Giles, though he had little patience for their endless dialogues. He knew this type, the learned reformer who believed reason could purify faith. Yet he also knew how easily such men became martyrs of their own convictions.

  Giles continued, undeterred. “The Council of Basel seeks not to tear down the Church, but to cleanse it. To end simony, pluralism, indulgence — to restore sanctity to service. Purification, not destruction.”

  “The Archbishop would not agree,” Remy said.

  “The Archbishop,” Giles replied, “is a man of order, not truth. His virtue lies in restraint — not renewal.”

  Remy turned his gaze toward the courtyard, where the winter light washed across the pale stones. He said nothing.

  Giles glanced at him sidelong. “Tell me then,” he asked. “What do you believe?”

  “I pray,” Remy said simply. “I pray, and I keep my faith to myself and no one else.”

  “You carry the symbols of two Popes,” Giles pressed. “Surely you must have an opinion on their quarrel — on who speaks for the true Church?”

  Remy’s expression remained impassive. “I carry their symbols only to smoothen my pilgrimage,” he said. “Faith should not be worn like a badge or wielded like a sword. The Popes are men — I am a man. We all bleed alike.”

  Giles frowned slightly, as though the answer troubled him. His eyes searched Remy’s face, looking for conviction or contradiction, but found neither. “You sound as though you stand above it all,” he said. “As though the Church’s fate does not concern you.”

  Remy met his gaze. “The Church’s fate is in God’s hands,” he said. “Not mine. My task is only to walk the path He gives me.”

  Giles was silent for a long moment. The two men continued through the archways, past a line of frescoes darkened by candle smoke, and into a smaller hall where sunlight pooled in golden squares across the floor.

  He spoke again, softer now. “You know,” he said, “many at the Council think the same as I do — that truth lies not in decree, but in argument and consensus. That perhaps the Holy Spirit speaks not through one man in Rome, but through many who gather to reason together.”

  “That is a dangerous belief,” Remy said.

  “Is it?” Giles looked at him, his tone suddenly alive with quiet passion. “If truth is divine, why should it fear men’s voices? Why should it hide behind bulls and seals? A Church that forbids question has already forgotten the light it claims to carry.”

  Remy let the man speak. He admired the conviction, though he knew how such words could end. A century or two hence, he thought, this kind of thinking would ignite the fires of reform that would tear Christendom in two. He felt a faint chill at the thought — a whisper of the future pressing against the present, like a storm beyond the horizon.

  He could almost hear the flapping of butterfly wings... the small choices, small words, reshaping what was to come.

  Giles turned to him again. “You do not believe that men can change the Church?”

  “I believe,” Remy said quietly, “that men will change it, whether they should or not. But I do not wish to help them do so.”

  That answer seemed to disappoint Giles more than anger him. He gave a small, thoughtful sigh. “Then you are content to walk through this world untouched, to let history pass by without leaving a mark.”

  Remy stopped and regarded him steadily. “History is not a thing to be touched,” he said. “It is a river. You step into it, and you are carried whether you wish it or not. The more you struggle, the more the current shifts. I prefer not to disturb it.”

  Giles’s eyes narrowed. “You speak as if you’ve seen the whole of it.”

  “Perhaps I have,” Remy said, though the words came out softer than intended.

  The envoy looked at him strangely, but did not press the matter. Instead, he changed the subject — as though sensing that the knight’s thoughts lay far beyond the city, beyond even the century itself.

  They spoke then of France, of the dying embers of the war, of scholars in Paris who argued over the soul’s nature. Giles recited lines from Augustine and Bernard, his tone reverent, almost wistful. Remy listened politely, offering the kind of brief, neutral replies that neither invited nor offended.

  It was not that he disliked Giles, far from it. He simply knew that to let the man continue was to risk being drawn into the politics he despised. Every question, every argument was a thread, and Giles was a man who could weave entire snares of them before one realized.

  Remy was not here to be caught in such nets.

  He thought again of the future, of small words spoken in Esztergom echoing through centuries. The Council of Basel, the arguments of reform, the questions of authority, all seeds that would one day grow into storms.

  He felt that familiar unease rise within him, the knowledge that his mere presence, his mere existence in this age, might already be changing what should never be changed.

  The butterfly flaps its wings, he thought. And the wind shifts in Rome, in Wittenberg, in the world.

  He pushed the thought away.

  As they came to the palace courtyard once more, Giles stopped. “You are not what I expected, Lord Lucien,” he said, his tone a mixture of admiration and regret. “You have the mind of a scholar, the faith of a monk, and the sword of a crusader and yet you serve none but yourself.”

  Remy smiled faintly. “I serve God,” he said. “And if I must choose between serving men or serving Him, I will choose Him every time.”

  Giles bowed, slow and deliberate. “Then perhaps that is where we differ. I would serve both to make this world a little closer to His image.”

  “Then may He guide you,” Remy said.

  They parted there, under the long shadow of the cathedral tower. Giles walked toward the inner cloister, his robe stirring the dust in his wake. Remy watched him go, the gold of the afternoon fading into the dull gray of evening.