Prisoner of the Flames (Leisure Historical Romance) (23 page)

It was well past the noon hour the next day before the healer had his audience with the king. It was a rather warm day, with cloudless skies, and softly sighing breezes, more like spring than autumn. Eager for the meeting, and knowing that a private interview was called for, the healer suggested a stroll in the palace garden. The king walked with him in the open among the sculptured yews. Well out of
range of jealous ears, the young monarch spoke frankly, his voice mature for one so young. Nostradamus had always admired this in the boy, and credited it to the fact that he spent much of his time in the company of intellectual adults, rather than children his own age. For all that the boy had the makings of a proper hypochondriac, and was easily led. He also had the makings of a monarch in him. But the healer had seen that outcome as well, and walking with the still innocent boy then, he saw again the bloodbath to come, and shuddered in spite of himself, for he knew that he would not be there to prevent it.

“I am glad to have this chance to speak with you privately before you leave the city,” the king said. “Tell me…our bold Scot, is he safe?”

Nostradamus studied him. It would not do to be hasty. “Would that please you, Your Majesty?” he probed at last.

“I like that fellow,” the boy confided. “I did from our first encounter.”

“I have heard it said that he greatly admires you as well,” said Nostradamus.

“And where would you have heard something such as that?” he queried.

“From a reliable source, Your Majesty.”

“He is well, then?”

Nostradamus nodded.

“Come, come, Doctor! Surely you are aware that I recognized him yesterday?” the boy snapped. “If I was going to see him clapped in irons that would have been the time to do it. I know that he liberated that uncle of his, and I know that he killed the fool Garboneaux in the process. I should imagine that I have proven my loyalty well enough in abetting his escape. I even tried to warn him to leave France now as best I could under the circumstances.”

Nostradamus smiled. “Surely the admiral knows that?” he queried.

“Nothing of the kind,” said the king, “though he can think whatever he likes, of course, and doubtless does, but should I say that monk was Jesus Christ Himself, I
am the king!
How dare he—how dare
anyone
—question me?”

“I am…grateful, Your Majesty.”

“And I am worried,” the king admitted. “All factions seek the Scot. I have done everything I can do. Is he safe and away? Has he returned to Scotland? They cannot touch him there.”

“There is a slight…problem, Your Majesty. I am in hopes that you might be able to alleviate it.”

“If I can. Tell it me.”

“I do have your allegiance?” the healer hedged.

The boy king stopped in his tracks and stared, incredulous. “Has your hearing become impaired, then? If you did not, he never would have left the Bastille alive yesterday.”

Nostradamus nodded. “Forgive me, I had to be certain,” he said humbly. “There is a young blind girl, a flower vendor, whom he seeks to wed and take to Scotland with him. He was attempting to escape the country with her, when he had news of Brother Aengus’s arrest. That turned him ’round, and he set out with the girl to liberate him. She came down with a mild case of plague en route. Mild, because I prepared them for it with my lozenges, which she foolishly discarded. I doctored her, and she has passed the crisis, but while our Scot left her unattended yesterday to free the monk, someone stole her from their hiding place.”

“And you would know who took her, and her whereabouts,” the king surmised.

“If you have knowledge, and would share it, I would be eternally grateful, Your Majesty.”

“She is detained at Notre Dame Cathedral,” said the king. “The cardinal and the Guises’s loyals took her there. I wondered what the urgency was all about—and the secrecy over a mere street urchin. Now it becomes clear. The cardinal
would claim the Scot’s head as a personal trophy. The fellow’s made a fool of him. And that is simply not allowed. He obviously means to see our friend pay the penalty.”

“I assumed such was the case. I needed to be certain.”

“Surely, he cannot mean to lay siege to Notre Dame?” the king asked.

“Hardly ‘lay siege,’ but, yes, he does mean to retrieve her. He will not leave France without the girl.”

“But he
must.
He is one man alone. He has no hope against the cardinal and his allies—against the Guise machine, for it is that well-oiled, and at the ready.”

“And…if he does as you urge, what will happen to the girl then?”

“She will be arrested, of course, for complicity,” the king pronounced. “And they will shut her up in that prison and forget her, or put her to death.”

“What if the powers that be…the gendarmes take her from the cathedral now?”

“They cannot,” said the king. “So long as she is under the protection of Notre Dame, she has sanctuary. No legal means can touch her. When she no longer serves the cardinal’s purpose, he will, of course, remand her to the authorities. It is only a matter of time.”

“I see. He must move quickly, then.”

The boy king gave a start. “You’re serious!” he cried. “He actually means to stage another daring rescue!”

“He means to see that no guiltless man suffers for the crimes of which he is accused.”

“He will be killed.”

“Possibly.”

“He is mad!”

“He is a Scot.”

“That’s said it, bigod!” the king shouted. “Are they all mad, our Scottish cousins?”

“They are all, for the most part, honorable, something
that is often accompanied by a jot of madness. The times dictate it, Your Majesty.”

The boy king breathed a ragged sigh. “I will, of course, keep your confidence, but I cannot help you in this. Sanctuary of the Church cannot be violated. Not even by the king himself without extreme circumstances. There are no such circumstances here, and you well know the extent of my actual power. My mother—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Nostradamus interrupted. “I did by no means expect you to abet me. I sought only information that might lead us to the girl.”

“Hah!” the king cried. “I wonder if our esteemed cardinal would have been so quick to lay hands upon her, were he aware that she emerged so recently from the pestilence. Half the clergy in Paris will be down with the pox here now, no doubt. There is almost justice in it that, at least, as Coligny will view it. But, of course, you seek explicit information. To my knowledge, she is held below the nave, in the lower regions. Guards are posted at all the portals. No doubt many are disguised. Specifics will not help you. It is impossible—suicide.”

“Perhaps,” said the healer, “but hasn’t all of France gone suicidal here of late?”

“But this,” the king breathed.

“Forgive me,” Nostradamus interrupted. “The hour grows late. I regret that I can tarry here no longer. I thank you for your compassion and honesty. Both qualities are rare jewels that offset any sovereign. Wear them always, Your Majesty. I doubt that France is worthy of you, or that she will even show her true appreciation. You are a remarkable boy. You will be a…remembered king. If you would do as I have told him, forget all outward influence, and learn to see with your spirit, history will reward you. May God attend you, Your Majesty.”

“And you likewise,” the king returned. “Tell the Scot…”

“Yes, Your Majesty?” Nostradamus prompted, through the boy’s hesitation.

“Tell him that I pray we meet again one day, when times are saner.”

“I will convey your message,” the healer promised, bowing, “but I fear such times will never be. Insanity is king of all the earth, ‘til God Himself descends again, and walks upon it.”

True to his word, Nostradamus’s carriage penetrated the wood just after the sun disappeared. It did indeed resemble a box on wheels, lumbering wooden wheels, at that, somewhat out of round for warping and disuse. It boasted open holes for doors, and was being pulled by two heavy horses, driven by the healer’s mute servant. The man saw Aengus settled safely inside the seat facing forward, which had been prepared with a padding of
dagswain
, and blankets of fustian wool for his comfort. There he would remain out of sight, where the crude wooden seat itself could be lowered over him and sat upon if needs must, should they be stopped. The servant showed Aengus how to bring the seat down and secure it from below if necessary. Carriages were not unknown, but few save royalty and the very rich possessed them. Consequently, they were a curiosity, attracting the notice of peasant and gendarme alike, and oftentimes a following. The hollow seats had served Nostradamus in the past as a means of transporting forbidden books and documents and recipes for his medicines, slipping them past the watchful eyes of the Inquisitor’s men undetected. Now, they held a far more precious cargo. The healer guided Robert toward the gurgling stream to walk awhile before departing.

“The king will keep your confidence,” he told him. “He wishes you well, and prays you meet again under less…severe circumstances.”

“God save him,” Robert murmured.

“As I suspected, Charles de Guise has conveyed Violette to Notre Dame. It is a trap. Guards man the portals, and she is safe there until you are in custody. Then, she, too, will suffer under all factions’ wrath. She is expendable. She has no ties.”

“Where have they got her in that place?”

“She is confined to the lower regions.”

“If I go by night…?”

The healer shook his head. “Have you seen Notre Dame?” he queried.

“No, but—”

“It crouches on Île de la Cité, an island in the very heart of the Seine. It is immense, young ram. It can easily hold thirteen thousand persons. It is well staffed. You cannot hope to approach it unseen. It is quite impossible. And the cardinal knows it.”

“What do I do, then?” Robert urged.

“There is one way that you can enter, in full view of the cardinal himself if needs must be, without detection.”

“And that is?”

“Dead.”

“Dead?”

“It is arranged,” Nostradamus replied. “The plan will get you in, but getting you out again is quite another matter. That cannot be plotted. There are too many incalculable aspects. You will be on your own resources in that, I’m afraid.”

“Just get me in. I will attend to the rest. Go on, Doctor Nostradamus, let me hear this.”

“At midnight, make your way to the vendors’ quarter. Just south of the bridge, a narrow lane forks southward. Number twelve is the house you seek. It bears a broken gargoyle over the portal. Knock once and the door will open to you.”

“You went to the vendors?” Robert asked, his voice edged with objection.

“There was no other choice.”

“I know the street of which you speak. But she did not want to involve those people. Besides, none there would help me. I spoke with every tenant when I first sought her.”

“She no longer has a choice if we are to save her, and they are willing.”

“That may well be, but what can a handful of hawkers do? It is madness, this!”

The old healer smiled. “They can take their poor dead brother to the nave for prayers before his burial,” he said. “He was a wealthy shopkeeper, as hawkers go. A cloth merchant with his own fine stall, God rest him, and they are prepared with a substantial contribution to the churchmens’ coffers for their inconvenience at the untimely pilgrimage. The coffin will not be disturbed once tales spread that the poor devil was crushed to death—quite hideously mangled beneath the hoofs of a frenzied horse.”

“They would convey me in a…a coffin?”

A smug nod answered him.

“You paid the tribute, didn’t you?” Robert surmised.

“A good investment.”

The Scot heaved a mammoth sigh, and raked his hair back roughly. “I hope you’re right,” he said.

“What? You do not like the plan? I thought it quite brilliant.”

“It isn’t that,” the young laird returned. “How do I get out of the abominable thing in full view of the priests—feign resurrection?”

“At some predetermined point, which you will arrange with the vendors, their grief will overcome them. They will converge upon the coffin and shroud your escape from it with their bodies en masse.”

“What then?”

Nostradamus shrugged. “You are on your own. They will request time to recover for a bit in one of the two chapels set between the flying buttresses before they depart the
cathedral. The donation is sufficient enough that there should be no resistance. They will wait a reasonable time—you know it cannot be lengthy. If in that time you can manage to find the girl and convey her to the coffin, they will carry her out in it as they have carried you in. You, of course, will be left on your own. Ideally, you might follow along with the crowd, but that is hardly likely—not with that face. Besides, I would suggest that you wear the habit. It will help you in the lower regions, but it will be noticed if you attempt to leave with the rest. This, as I’ve said, is the ideal. More than likely, you will be left there facing escape with Violette on your own. The maze of Notre Dame Cathedral’s bowels is no mere closet, young ram.”

“I suppose this is the only hope I have?” Robert replied, praying he was mistaken.

“Of gaining entrance to Notre Dame while all Paris seeks you? Yes.”

“So be it, then! What happens next?”

“If you are separated, you will return to the same house under cover of darkness. Violette will not be there. The vendors will have spirited her away to some safe place, and you will be given directions to join her. The coffin will be buried, as though it actually did have a body in it, which it probably will by the time it reaches the graveyard, since I have just come from there, and several of their number breathe their last. If you are forced to escape together, the plan must be of your own design.”

“And…Uncle Aengus?”

“Put him from your mind. I will see that Montaigne secures him safe passage to Scotland once he is fit. He cannot return to the Mount.”

“I do not like involving the vendors. The risk is great.”

“It is far greater if you try and enter the cathedral on your own with no hope of any means to cover or conceal you.”