Prisoner of the Flames (Leisure Historical Romance) (6 page)

He was about to extinguish the candle when a knock on the door stopped his hand as he reached toward it. “Come in,” he said, supposing it to be Montaigne. Instead, it was the dark-haired maid, Francine, who entered, and he quickly put the helm on while her back was toward him as she closed the door. “What do you here, lass?”

“The master thought you might like a little…company,” she said, strolling nearer the bed.

Robert stared as the undulating wench unlaced the girdle she wore over her shift and set it aside. Sauntering nearer, she slid the shift down, baring her pendulous breasts. They swayed, their tawny nipples erect, as she threw back the bedclothes, hiked up her shirts, and straddled him. She smelled sour, of sweat, spiced malt ale, and residual kitchen grease, and he grimaced beneath the helmet.

“Do Scotsmen always sleep decked out for battle, then?” she chided, laying hands on the helmet to remove it.

“No!” he said, grabbing her wrists to prevent her. Lowering her hands, he let them go. “This will not do,” he said. “I thank your master for his hospitality, but I wish no company tonight.”

“I will be chastised if I do not pleasure you,” she crooned, groping beneath the hem of his shirt until her skilled hand closed around the shaft of his member. “You would not want to see me flogged, then, would you, my lord?”

“Seigneur de Montaigne does not seem the type of man to whip a woman,” he opined, grabbing her wrist again, for exhaustion always heightened his libido, and she had aroused him.

She only laughed, guiding his hands to her breasts, and crushed his fingers against the tall, protruding nipples as she attempted to capture his member with her body by lowering herself upon it. Now that his hands were occupied trying to forefend that, she lifted his helm, and he quickly turned the burned side of his face aside as she gasped and shrank back from him.

“You were warned,” he gritted, lifting her off him, “and I told you I wanted no company.”

“Liar! That there says otherwise,” she shrilled, gesturing toward the erection he quickly covered. “What? You thought you’d get better in such an important master’s house? Who
but somebody paid to, do you think would let you cock a leg looking like…like
that
?”

“Get
out!
”

“What? After you’ve got me ready?”

“You ready easily, I think,” he said with a humorless laugh, “and will find relief elsewhere quick enough.” It was no less than she deserved. Montaigne meant well, but this was beyond bearing, and he retrieved his helm and put it back in place. He would have welcomed the release, but not in such a one as she. Never again in such a one as she! If he had to bend to Aengus’s will and enter the monastery, he would have no more truck with strumpets. “Get out,” he said again. “I shall tell no tales to your master. If he should pay you again to keep me ‘company,’ take the tribute as you will, but do not come to me again. Get
out
I say!”

“You’ll have no luck for humiliating me,” she warned him, snatching up her girdle from the floor and tugging her shift back over her breasts. “It can rot and fall off for wanting before I come near it again!”

Crashing through the door, she disappeared, and Robert vaulted from the bed and dropped the wooden bar, locking the door behind her. After extinguishing the candle flame in his open palm with such a heavy hand that it squashed the beeswax taper flat, he crawled between the sheets, exhausted. Only then would he remove the helm and trust himself to spiral into a deep, dreamless sleep.

R
obert did not mention Francine’s nocturnal visit to Mon-
taigne in the morning. He broke his fast with barley bread and ale and then set out for the vendors’ quarter in search of Violette. The magistrate lent him a fine bay gelding from his stables for the occasion and for his continued use during his stay in France.

He had no trouble finding the area Montaigne had mapped out. It wasn’t far from the foot of the bridge where he’d last seen her, though she was not there today. The heavy rains had ceased, but the day was still sodden, spitting rain, and blustery, and the air had turned colder. He reached the home of Jacques and Justine Delon, where he was told Violette kept lodgings. It was easily recognizable with its unique Lincoln green door. But the door was slammed shut in his face after the woman insisted that Violette was not there, that she had not been in a day and a night, and that she had no idea where she’d gone. Her cart, however, was there. Robert’s sharp eyes glimpsed it lying empty behind the mews.

He knocked on every other door in the quarter with the same result—no one had seen Violette since the incident. He rode back to Montaigne’s château acutely disappointed. He wanted to thank her, yes, but more than that, he wanted to see her again. The sight and scent of her was still with him. Those beautiful eyes, like a frightened doe’s in color and expression tugged at his memory, as did the long fall of satiny light brown hair cascading down her back from under the tight-fitting white linen cap, tied under her dainty chin.
He took a deep breath, recalling her scent. The clean, rain-washed air seemed infused with it—mum, nasturtium, and the provocative, clovelike gillyflower. Even the memory of it blotted out the real smells of food rotting in the alleys, of musky, lathered horseflesh, and sooty smoke belching from poorly drawing chimneys and braziers.

He arrived at the château just in time for the noon hour dinner, and joined Montaigne in the study, where a veritable feast was laid out including boiled beef, pickled herring, and mutton, as well as more of the savory olive pie. Boiled salad and trencher bread were also offered, along with jugs of ale, sack, and also perry, made of succulent pears, for which Montaigne professed a partiality. Robert ate heartily while they waited for the magistrate’s messenger to return with Nostradamus’s reply to the missive he’d sent that morning.

After they ate, Montaigne suggested a stroll through the gardens for their private talk, out of earshot of anyone who might eavesdrop.

“Your uncle made you aware of the situation here in France, no?” the magistrate queried, as they progressed through the various plantings.

“He told me something of the conflict, yes, and warned me to beware of the Guises. I think he felt that I best wait and consult you for the details, since the situation is so rapidly changing here now.”

“Indeed. Your uncle has had dealings with Charles de Guise, and knows firsthand the danger in that camp. I can only reinforce whatever he has told you. Have no truck there if you can avoid it.”

“I am hoping to have concluded my business here and be away before I’ve had the pleasure of his acquaintance, seigneur.”

“The Guises rule here now, no matter who sits on the throne,” the magistrate warned. “Their power fell away briefly after Francis II died, when Catherine de’ Medici, as
regent, dominated the government. But just last year, the duke, Francois de Guise, the cardinal’s brother, formed a triumvirate of sorts with Montmorency and Marshal Saint-Andre, putting them again at the head of the Catholic party in a formidable bloc—more powerful than they had ever been. This is where we stand now, and their opposition to the Calvinists has us on the brink of civil war here.”

“These Huguenots…what is their stand? Why can they not coexist peacefully?”

“They are no different from the Protestants you have encountered in Scotland, my lord. Their beliefs are intolerable to the Catholics, in that they would make all men—and
women
, privy to the Scriptures, not just priests and the hierarchy, as it is now. Both factions vie for supremacy, and neither will yield. The Guises have mustered a daunting army, with men like General Louis de Brach, a ruthless, self-serving social climber, who like the cardinal himself, has risen in the ranks over the bodies of those who dared oppose him—Huguenot and Catholic alike! He is the cardinal’s constant companion here of late, fighting for sway over the boy king with Condé and Coligny, the Protestant opposition. That is the real conflict, and they must also sway the Queen Mother, and Catherine de’ Medici is a force to be reckoned with. She walks the thin edge of a sword between them right now, swinging like a pendulum, and as she goes, so goes the king.”

“Where do you stand in this conflict?” Robert asked.

“On a similar edge of a similar sword,” Montaigne responded. “My office allows it. Were I to take sides now, it would ring my own death knell. I am wise enough not to declare myself—even to you, and being a Jew, I am not pressed. I do have a personal opinion that I will share, though, for your ears only.”

“And that is…?”

“That God…the God we
all
worship, who has given us
free will, has not denied us free expression in our humble attempt to worship Him. It is man, who has done that, and man must answer for it how God wills.”

“Well said.”

“Only to you.”

“I understand, and I am flattered, seigneur, and honored to be privy to your innermost thoughts. I shan’t ever betray them.”

“I am counting upon it.”

“You can. A Scot’s word is his bond.”

“I have consulted your healer on the subject of war. He is not encouraging.”

“Is he really able to see into the future?”

Montaigne ground out a humorless laugh. “Ask the Queen Mother,” he said. “His prediction of her husband King Henri’s death is legendary. He has written books, which, I might add, she carries with her, and he doubtless will write more. Some of his predictions, I will admit, are without precedent, but who can say, eh, considering that all he has prophesied of the here and now has come to pass. Catherine idolizes him, and after forecasting Henri’s death so exactly, his word is sacrosanct. She is a very superstitious sort. She has consulted the astrologer Ruggiero for years. There are dark rumors there as well, just as there are concerning Nostradamus, who has, I fear, been suspected of consorting with the Devil himself.”

“I know you do not believe he can help me,” Robert said, dismally.

“I know, my lord, that you must hear that diagnosis from Nostradamus himself before you will yield to reason. Nothing I can say will dissuade you from seeing him, and so I shall not even try.”

As if on cue, a servant hurried along the garden walkway bearing a sealed missive. But he was not alone. Two others came apace behind, one robed, the other uniformed.

“Mon
Dieu!”
Montaigne crammed the letter into the pocket of his gown. “So much for concluding your business and being away before making the cardinal’s acquaintance,” he whispered. “Take care! The other with him is Louis de Brach, the general I spoke of. Leave this to me.”

“Are we interrupting something?” the cardinal asked, hooded eyes raking Robert from head to toe. “Don’t let us keep you from your missive there, Montaigne. The way your man all but trampled us to deliver it, it must be rather…important.”

“Another summons from the Queen Mother, your grace,” Montaigne responded silkily. “Heaven knows I am no architect, but she will consult me over every detail—monumental decisions, such as should there be a gallery in the renovated wing, where must the privies be, and how the new gardens should be laid. My poor gelding will be swaybacked soon for traveling back and forth, I fear. I will be much relieved when the Louvre restorations are complete.”

“Ummm,” the cardinal grunted. “And this is…?” he inquired, inclining his head toward Robert.

“My houseguest,” said Montaigne flatly. “Forgive me…Robert, Laird of Berwickshire, may I present Charles, Cardinal de Guise, and General Louis de Brach.”

Robert nodded his helmeted head and studied the two most feared men in Paris with not a little interest. The cardinal’s robed presence was indeed formidable, but it was the captain who interested him more. This was a warrior, someone with whom he could identify, if not agree. What he read there was plain—the man had loyalties to no one save himself, and eyes like a ferret’s, sharp and black, that missed nothing.

“With which army are you aligned, my lord?” the captain queried. “I do not recognize your…uniform.”

“Neither army, sir,” said Robert steadily and succinctly.

“Your rudeness is insulting, then,” the general responded.
“Who has taught you manners? Remove the helm, so that we may see with whom we speak.”

“You have been told you with whom you speak,” Robert replied. “I wear the helm not out of rudeness, but rather compassion—what lies beneath is hideous to view.”

A spark of recognition flared in the cardinal’s eyes. A hissing sound accompanied the look, and he held up his hand toward the general, cutting his next words short.

“Of course,” he said, “Robert of Paxton, nephew of Aengus Haddock. I know him well, your uncle. A childhood injury as I recall…your deformity?”

“A fire, your grace,” Robert replied, close eyes on the general, who still viewed him with suspicion.

“What brings you here to Paris—more to the point, to Montaigne’s château, eh?”

“I am his sponsor whilst he visits Paris, your grace,” Montaigne interjected.

“You?
Why you?” the cardinal demanded.

“Are you not a Catholic, then?” the general put in, speaking to Robert.

“Now, now, Louis, let us not be hasty here. Let him speak,” the cardinal soothed.

“Won’t you step into the parlor for a refreshment?” Montaigne offered.

“We shan’t be staying,” the cardinal said, his voice like ice. “We heard of your…guest, and we have come to see whom you have taken into your home in these troubled times. Mere curiosity, Montaigne. You entertain so seldom.”

“What is your alliance?” the general persisted, strolling nearer the Scot. “Declare it!”

“I am a Catholic,” said Robert. “It is well known, I think, without my telling it to you upon demand.”

A quick look from Montaigne told him this was not the tack to follow. A sidelong glance in Louis de Brach’s direction
reaffirmed it. The general’s posture had clenched, and the hands at his sides were flexing in and out of white-knuckled fists.

“Then, how is it that your uncle has chosen Montaigne here, a Jew, to sponsor you and not myself, my lord? I should imagine I would have been the most logical choice.”