Prisoner of the Flames (Leisure Historical Romance) (5 page)

The closest lit chimney, a portable fireback and grate, was located in a small parlor room Montaigne used as a study behind the Great Hall, and he left her there seated beside it in a Glastonbury chair to seek his steward, who returned with him, bringing ale and a blanket, which the magistrate wrapped around her shoulders. After setting a tankard into her hands, he dismissed the steward and took a seat in a similar chair on the other side of the chimney.

“Now then,” he said, “what is all this business about a laird, and a letter for me? Tell me slowly, from the beginning if you please.”

“A Scottish laird helped me today,” she began. “Two drunkards were using me cruelly by the bridge. They had overturned my cart, and were tossing me back and forth like a poppet, and he put them off. He said he had come in search of you…that he had a letter of introduction from his uncle…a monk, I think.” She drew it, damp and crumpled, from her pocket and handed it to him. Leaning close to the chimney, he broke the seal and read Aengus Haddock’s words.

“Mon
Dieu!”
he breathed. “You say they’ve taken him to jail? What was his crime?”

“He did no crime,” she shrilled, “but for saving me.”

“Calm yourself, child. He must have done
something.
Think.”

“From what I heard of their speech, I believe they followed him from the harbor. There was something…wrong with him. He wore a helmet, and when they laid hold of him and removed it, they screamed—
‘plague’!
But he said not, and they took him anyway. I think he injured one of the gendarmes. I…I’m sure he did, seigneur.”

Montaigne sighed. “You know all the local gendarmes, don’t you, child? Who were they? Did you recognize their voices?”

“I did. They were Jean-Claude Geneaux and Henri Flammonde.”

“I know them. This does not surprise me.”

“They took his money pouch, his sword, I think, I heard it clinking, and traveling bag, and hauled him off to the Bastille. I tried to help him, seigneur. I kicked Jean-Claude hard in the shins. I told them I would report them, and they threw me down.”

“You should not have done that, Violette,” he scolded.
“Now they will likely seek a reprisal. But that cannot be helped now. Go on, child, what more?”

“I found the letter in the street, and came here to you. I wasn’t even sure it was the credentials he spoke of, but the seal suggested it might be. At first I thought to go to the Bastille with it…but they were so…unreasonable with him that I feared they might just discard it—”

“And likely lock you up as well,” the magistrate interrupted, “especially since you recognized them; a wise decision. You’ve done well, Violette—very well. Is there more?”

“No, seigneur,” she murmured, “except…”

“Except what, child?”

“I feel…responsible. It never would have happened if he hadn’t tried to help me.”

“And, where were they, Jean-Claude and Henri, whilst he was doing their job for them, eh?”

“Watching.”

“Nevermind, child. There is no fault in you. Drink up. My steward is preparing a basket of food. You must be starving. It is nothing fancy, I’m afraid. Since I was not in residence, and dining at court, no formal fare was prepared, but there is some trencher bread left over from the servants’ meal that they have not yet given over to the poor, some cheese, and some pears. As soon as it’s brought, and my carriage is readied, I will see you safely to your quarter. Then I will deal with this muddle you’ve brought me.”

“You have a
carriage?”
she marveled. She had never heard of anyone except the royals possessing one, and certainly never dreamed she would ride in one.

“A very small one of sorts,” he replied, “nothing anywhere near so grand as the king’s, I fear. I do not use it here in Paris, only for my trips to and from Bordeaux. It will keep you drier than the cart, and I would not sit you on a horse blind—storm or no.”

“Thank you, seigneur,” she said. “You have always been
kind—even buying my flowers when I know that you have no one to give them to. God bless you!”

“So, you’ve found me out, have you?” he chided. He laughed outright. “Well, it may interest you to know that I shall be shopping for a wife once all this unrest is settled, and then you will be seeing me more often at your flower cart.”

“Can you free him?” she urged. She couldn’t imagine it, and not even his laughter, or the prospect of riding in a carriage could coerce her to smile.

“Not sitting here,” he said. “The hour grows late, and this needs my immediate attention. That makeshift dungeon is no place for the guilty, much less the innocent.”

Robert had no idea if it was night or day, or how long he’d been held there when Garboneaux unlocked the heavy cell door and thrust the flare lighting Montaigne’s way as he entered.

“Mon
Dieu!”
the magistrate murmured, raising a handkerchief to his nose. “Get him out of that!”

“How was I to know?” the jailer grumbled. “He had no letter on him when they brought him in. They feared plague. Just look at that, seigneur! And he attacked one of them—kicked him in his privates. He’s still all swoll up.”

“Probably from the pox,” snapped Montaigne. “That’s not all that’s going to be ‘swoll up’ before I’ve done. You have to answer for this, Garboneaux—all three of you. Well? Why are you still standing there? Remove those irons!” He ventured nearer. “What’s this?” he demanded. “Why is he bleeding? Has he been treated? Speak up!”

“N-no, seigneur,” the jailer stammered, unlocking the shackles. “I…I mean, yes, that is…I—”

“Nevermind, I can see that he has not. Get his belongings—his traveling bag—his sword, and be quick!” Shoving the jailer aside, he snatched up Robert’s helmet,
and helped him to his feet. “Can you stand, my lord?” he queried.

“Y-yes,” Robert murmured. “Seigneur de Montaigne?” “Yes, my lord,” he replied. “I will explain, but first let me get you out of here. Come.”

Robert donned the helmet, and let the magistrate lead him up through the narrow passageways and out into the rain to the waiting carriage, which he eyed skeptically, never having ridden in one. It had to be a dream—but for his aching body, bruised from the beatings he’d suffered in custody, he would have sworn to it.

“The first thing we must do,” Montaigne said, “is get you home and summon a physician.”

“No,” Robert returned. “I will mend without that. There is only one physician whom I need to see in France.”

“Ahhh yes, so your uncle said in his communiqué. Once you are rested and refreshed, we will get to that.”

“How did it ever come into your hands? I’d given up hope of being found.”

“You have Violette, a little blind flower vendor of your acquaintance, to thank for your good fortune.”

“The girl by the bridge?” he breathed, incredulous. “I feared they would arrest her as well. She foolishly tried to defend me. Quite the little tigress.”

“She found the letter in the street and brought it to my château. I had been summoned to court early, and I had already left for the Louvre when she arrived with it. I returned quite late, otherwise I would have been here sooner.”

“All this happened
today?”
Robert queried, scarcely able to believe he’d only been incarcerated for a few short hours. It seemed like a lifetime.

“Poor fellow, we haven’t exactly made you welcome in France, have we?” Montaigne observed. “I beg you forgive
my countrymen their want of conduct. All Frenchmen are not oafish want-wits.”

“She waited for you, then?”

“Yes, fortunately for you. I never would have known you had been arrested otherwise. Without her, the letter would have meant nothing. I found her on my doorstep in the pouring rain when I returned. She had been waiting there since the morning. My servants admit no one these days. One cannot be too careful. This country is at war with itself, I am ashamed to say.”

“Where is she now? I would thank her, seigneur.”

“There will be plenty of time for that on the morrow. I returned her to the vendors’ quarter well rewarded. I will be happy to direct you. But first we must become acquainted, and you must be fed.”

Robert would not argue with that. He was beyond famished, and while a wooden tub was being prepared with soothing bay, and fennel in what was to be his sleeping quarters, Montaigne had the steward prepare a meal consisting of a boiled salad, olive pie, and sauced capon that were slated for the following day’s meal, served on fresh trencher bread.

A comely serving maid, whom the magistrate introduced as Francine, brought the food to Montaigne’s study for privacy; she set it on a thick wooden table along with jugs of sack and ale, and left them. The fare smelled wonderful, and Robert salivated in anticipation, but he was reluctant to remove the helm.

“I have already seen your misfortune, my lord, and I am no worse for the experience,” Montaigne said. “We are quite alone here now, and shall remain so. Please remove the bonnet and have your food before it grows cold.”

Hesitantly, Robert set the helm aside and drew his eating knife from its scabbard, grateful that the magistrate had retrieved it, and his sword as well from the jailer. He would
have had his
sgian dubh
in any case, since none at the jail had found it concealed inside his tall, laced boot. He had not been so successful where the coin pouch was concerned; neither gendarme would admit taking it, and Garboneaux was innocent of that crime since it was disposed of well before he ever set eyes upon Robert, its contents divided between Jean-Claude and Henri. But the young Scot was not so foolish as to travel abroad with all his funds in one purse. The bulk of his coinage was concealed in his codpiece.

“Why a heavy helm of silver?” Montaigne queried, nursing his tankard of ale. “It must be beyond bearing in the summer months, even though it covers only half your face. And the weight! I should think a simple traveling mask would suffice, no?”

“Wars are being waged on all fronts these days, and many sojourners travel about helmed; it is fast becoming the fashion of the times,” Robert responded. “Believe me, I attract far less notice in that headgear than I would in a cloth traveling mask, and, of course, at home my helm is known and respected. I have never been to France before, and I assumed that my…solution would work as well here as at home. But, I don’t believe it was the helm that attracted those guards as much as the fact that I am recognizably a foreigner. We Scots are somewhat…less delicately built than you French. They would have suspected me if my face were unblemished and I’d arrived bareheaded.”

“You may have a point, my lord. There are none here that compare to you that I can call to mind, and you certainly would have caused a stir bareheaded.”

Robert rolled his eyes and moaned. “This fare is outstanding,” he complimented. “You steward is to be commended, seigneur.”

The magistrate smiled. “You should join me at Montaigne, my home in Bordeaux,” he said. “Gaspard, my steward there, outshines Alain, but do not dare let Alain know that I said it.
He is very jealous of his talents, and one must never tamper with the temperament of those who prepare one’s food. Those, my friend, are words to live by.”

The meal was quickly eaten, and as soon as the last morsel had been swallowed, Robert reached for his helm.

“There is no need of that here,” Montaigne said, arresting him with a quick hand on his arm. “We are quite alone. We need to talk. Why not be comfortable to do it, eh?”

“Forgive me, seigneur,” Robert responded, drawing his hand back without the helm. “An old habit.”

“Your uncle asks that I sponsor you here during your stay in France.”

“Yes,” Robert said, “but do not feel as though you must entertain me. I seek your sponsorship in order to arrange an interview with Michel de Nostredame, the great healer. My uncle tells me that you are acquainted.”

“Because of…?” the magistrate queried, gesturing toward the obvious.

“Yes,” said Robert, nodding

“I will send word to him first thing on the morrow,” said Montaigne, frowning, “but…I do not want to raise your hopes.”

“You do not think he will meet with me, then?”

“He is a…peculiar fellow, I will admit, and who can say if he will or he won’t, but that is not what I meant. I doubt that even he can help you. How did it occur, your tragedy?”

“In my cradle, when I was a sennight old. There was a fire.”

“There were no healers in Scotland to help you?”

“No, I have found no healers equal to the task, but I have heard that Doctor Nostradamus has healing powers no others possess.”

“And if he cannot…?”

“Then I will be satisfied that I have left no stone unturned…and go home. It is not vanity, as Uncle Aengus supposes—not really. No decent lass will look at me. Even
the strumpets in the local stews back away in disgust. I want a wife and family—not only for Berwickshire…for myself; if that be vanity, than I am vain.”

“No, my lord, that is not vanity. It is no more than any man should expect as his God-given right in this life. You are exhausted. Let me show you to your sleeping quarters. We need to talk, it’s true, but we can do that on the morrow when you are rested, no? Come, your bath awaits.”

Robert’s sleeping chamber was small, though well appointed, boasting a boarded bed fitted with two mattresses stuffed with carded wood, and down pillows instead of the bolsters he was more accustomed to. There was a close-stool and chamber pot, a small table with a beeswax candle, basin and water crock upon it, and a box chair. The wooden tub was set beside a portable chimney, and he quickly shed his clothes and sank into the warm, fragrant water, ducking his head beneath to wash away the dry, crusted blood that had hardened on his neck, running from his injured ear. He lingered there until the water grew cold around him before he climbed out, dried himself with the linen towels laid there, and donned his shirt, which also served him for sleeping.

He poked the mattress. It had been some time since he’d slept on anything so fine. The bed in his cell at St. Michael’s Mount was no more than a pallet of straw. Throwing back the sheet and coverlet, he climbed beneath, and set his helm on the box chair beside the bed. He always kept it within reaching distance.