Prisoner of the Flames (Leisure Historical Romance) (7 page)

“Most probably because he did not want to burden you with keeping me whilst you have such press upon you here now,” Robert said, thinking on his feet. “You would, I am sure, have gone to great lengths to accommodate and entertain me, which would have taken you away from the dire situation at hand here. He simply did not want to impose; neither do I. My stay shall be brief, and I wish no fuss made over me.”

“Why
are
you here, then?” the general insisted. “What mission brings a Scot from the borderlands in time of war with English invaders into the midst of another stew in France, pray?”

“A personal one,” said Robert.

“Personal?”
the general erupted. “Explain.”

“I have come to see a healer over my…condition.”

No one spoke. Would they accept it? One look at the cardinal’s hard, cold stare, and the general’s overt skepticism told him it wasn’t likely.

“Who is this healer?” the cardinal queried.

“There is only one healer who can help me, I think,” Robert replied, “Michel de Nostredame.”

The cardinal made an indistinguishable sound in disgust that closely resembled the hiss of a cobra, and waved the notion off with a hand gesture.

“You lie!” the general roared. “Remove the helm! Let us see what you would have the charlatan Nostradamus heal.”

Robert glanced toward the magistrate, who nodded, and, without hesitation, he slipped off the helm.

But for a brief tremor in his cold eyes, the cardinal made no response. The general, on the other hand, had much to say.

“I was right!” he triumphed. “You lie, indeed! What? Do you take us for fools, here?
No one
could repair
that
—not even God, who has evidently marked you so. Now then, I shall ask you once again, ‘my lord,’ why have you come here? Why are you not tartan-clad? Are you ashamed of your country, or are you come to some clandestine purpose that you fear might bring shame upon it? Speak up! With which side are you aligned? Come, come, these are not difficult questions. You are either on one side, or the other. Declare yourself!”

“I have told you, I am not politically aligned here,” Robert said, donning the helm again. “I want no truck with your civil warring. I wear plain dress for anonymity.”

“He lies!” the general said, addressing the cardinal. “He smells of heresy. I can sniff out a heretic downwind a league away, and this man is one—Montaigne as well if he has sponsored him. Catholic, eh? We are not so backward here that we do not know the Protestant John Knox was ordained as minister in the ‘Church’ of Scotland three years past, and just two years ago, the Latin Mass was outlawed there.”

“That does not mean there are no Catholics left in my homeland,” Robert served. He turned to the cardinal. “And Queen Mary—a very Catholic relative of yours, your grace, as all here know—returned to Scotland a year ago this past August.”

“Take care where you sling your arrows, Louis de Brach,” the magistrate warned. “You have no right to come here uninvited and accuse this man, who has just professed his Catholic faith, much less me, of heresy without proof. Alienating me will not help your cause. It would do you well to remember that I have the Queen Mother’s ear, whilst all others in Paris scrap over it like dogs over a marrow bone.”

Again the cardinal’s upheld hand stayed the captain. “I have been slighted,” he announced. “Let us first deal with that. Your uncle has made a serious and costly error offending me…again. It shan’t go without reprisal, unless amends are made. You have just joined the Catholic cause against the Huguenots, I think,” he declared smugly, a triumphant sparkle in his narrowed eyes. “Since you have blundered upon the Church in trouble, you have no recourse that I can see, but to defend it. What say you, Louis, will that satisfy?”

“There is a planned…event to take place soon,” the general mused, stroking his pointed chin. “A raid. Two days hence, we march upon the Huguenot village north of the city. If he would prove himself, let him join the fray.”

“I do not need to prove anything!” Robert said hotly. “I’ve stated my business here. You cannot force me to fight your battles. I am a foreign noble.”

“Oh, no one is forcing you to, my lord,” the cardinal responded. “You are simply proving your loyalty to the Church…and to your uncle don’t forget, as well as your sponsor here. Oh, yes, you’ll lend those broad Scottish shoulders willingly enough to our cause I’m thinking.”

A chuckle erupted from the general’s throat at that, and Robert knew he was caught. Run through by his own sword. His deformity, the very thing he’d called upon to exempt him, had damned him instead. They did not believe him. Oddly, for all the danger he found himself in then, what bothered him most was that they didn’t think Nostradamus could heal him either.

How right his uncle was about this man, who claimed to be a prince of the Church. Not only would he be putting Aengus in jeopardy if he refused to fight, but Montaigne as well, who waited pensively, close, unreadable eyes upon him, anticipating his reply.

“Very well,” he said, through clenched teeth, glad that
they couldn’t clearly see the jaw muscles ticking beneath his helm, or the hard, lipless line his mouth had become. “I will join your battle, but not your war. As you have pointed out, I have wars at home to attend to, and I am sure that neither of you would be willing to come and lend me a hand with that.”

“Louis?” the cardinal intoned, soliciting the general’s approval. “Will that suit?”

“For now,” the general begrudged. “We shall see how well he fights for our cause in the field first.”

“When is this battle to be?” Robert queried.

“Patience, Laird Mack. I will come for you when ‘tis time,” the general assured him, “and for your sponsor’s sake, not to mention your uncle’s, you had best be here when I do.”

“I have given my word,” Robert reminded him, “and a Scotsman’s word is his bond. We shall soon see how the French measure up by comparison.”

“Montaigne,” the cardinal said, with a nod. “We take our leave…for now.” Then to the general, he said, “Come, Louis, we shouldn’t want to overstay our welcome.”

Both men turned then, and made their way back along the garden path without a backward glance.

“I am sorry, my lord,” said Montaigne, “that was regrettable, but unavoidable, I’m afraid.”

“It is I who am sorry, for involving you in my conceited cause. I will not see you chastised for my vanity, nor Uncle Aengus, either.”

“You do not want to fight this battle,” the magistrate said, answering his own question.

“I do not want to fight
any
battle in this land, seigneur, least of all a raid upon unsuspecting civilians. It is uncivilized.”

“The times are uncivilized, and I think, considering that we are both ingredients in the same stew here, we might dispense with formalities. I am Michel, and you are Robert,
consenti?”

“Agreed,” said Robert. “Will the one raid satisfy them, do you think, or have I signed on for the duration of this senseless bloodlust of Christian against Christian?”

“Only time will tell.”

“Then I must conclude my business with Doctor Nostradamus now—before this raid. Perhaps if they see that I am in earnest…that I really have come to seek his counsel—”

“Ah!” the magistrate interrupted. Reaching into the pocket of his gown, he produced the sheepskin the servant had handed him earlier, untied the ribbon wrapped around it, unrolled it, and read, his sharp eyes flitting over the lines of a script that looked both regal and primitive to Robert. “Your audience is granted this midnight,” he said, perusing further, “—at the ruins. It is encrypted, thus, I read between the lines. Could he have known the cardinal and Louis de Brach would come on the heels of it? He must have. I told you he had uncanny sight.”

“That is from Doctor Nostradamus? I thought the Queen Mother—”

“No, no, I only said that to dupe them. They would not dare tamper with a royal missive—at lease, I hoped not.”

“You were very convincing,” Robert said, through a guttural chuckle.

“A latent talent for performing in the mystery plays, I fear. I have always wondered what the life of a bard would be like. I do believe I’ve just had a taste.”

“I am to be watched, I take it.”

“I would count upon it, which is evidently why he has chosen the ruins over his rooms in the city for your meeting.”

“He has more faith in my ability to elude pursuers than I have,” Robert responded.

“It will take the general time to mobilize his spies. It would be best that you set out at once—now—in daylight, when you can see if you are being followed. The ruins stand on a knoll in the valley to the south that borders a copse
dense enough for you to conceal your mount. Come, while I have my steward prepare a food pouch and a skin of mead for you to sup upon while you await your interview. I will draw you a map.”

“And if I am followed despite all your precautions?” The magistrate smiled. “If Doctor Nostradamus has gone through this much trouble to bring you, my friend, you may rest assured that you will reach him safely.”

R
obert reached the ruins at dusk and tethered his bay gelding
in the forest close by. Taking stock of the structure and the land around it, he surmised that it had once been a keep used for defense. Its elevated vantage gave a panoramic view of the surrounding land. Now only the attached smokehouse and parts of the walls were still standing, and what remained seemed to be held together by the climbing woodbine that nearly covered it.

The inside was strewn with rubble, where the keep had collapsed in upon itself, and once he’d satisfied himself that he hadn’t been followed, he decided to wait and eat the food Montaigne had provided. Out of the view of any who might venture near, he relaxed, removed his helm, and opened the provisions sack.

There was a skin of spiced wine, a small loaf of cheat made with bran, a slab of butter wrapped in a grape leaf, and a generous wedge of nut-sweet hard cheese unlike any he had tasted at home. It was delicious, and he ate ravenously, washing it all down with the wine. Afterward, he stretched out alongside the highest wall and watched the moon rise full and round and brilliant. After a time, his eyelids grew heavy and finally closed, the darkness behind them diluted by the brightness of the moon, until something blotted it out. Seasoned warrior that he was, he sensed a presence and vaulted to his feet, drawing his sword and donning the helmet he’d set aside in one motion.

He stood in the presence of a short, vigorous man, whom he calculated to be in his late fifties or early sixties, darkly
gowned, wearing a four-pointed cap. The brilliant moonlight revealed rosy-apple cheeks, a high, square forehead, straight, determined features, and extremely keen eyes. He could not make out their color, but they shone like polished silver.

“Doctor Nostradamus?” he breathed.

“Take ease, my lord,” the healer soothed. “Sheath your sword and remove the helm. I have already seen what lies beneath.”

Robert raised the helmet and set it on a shelf of rubble, while the healer came forward and took hold of his chin, tilting it this way and that in the moonlight.

“Can you…help me?” Robert urged, studying the healer’s pursed lips and narrow-eyed scrutiny.

“Does it pain you?” Nostradamus queried.

“No. There is occasional tightness, but no pain.”

“I can give you an ointment that will soften the skin and relieve the tightness, young Scot, but the scars will remain. Those burns go deep, and were acquired early in your life. You are fortunate that only one side of your face was affected; the other is quite handsome.”

“I was but a bairn in my cradle, a sennight old, when it happened,” Robert said, desolate.

“Ummm,” the healer grunted. “Growth has distorted the scarring. There is no treatment. But one day, such will be remedied as a matter of course, though not in your lifetime I fear. When were you born—the month, and day?”

“I was born the thirtieth day of March, in the year of 1533.”

“The fire-sign of the ram. The flames have marked you. Warring is your…occupation?”

“Yes…”

“You have chosen well.”

“You were my last hope,” Robert despaired, “and in coming I have put many in danger—my Uncle Aengus, who is a
monk at the abbey of St. Michael’s Mount, seigneur de Montaigne, and an innocent little blind flower vendor, who has become caught up in my trouble; all for naught.”

“I am not your last hope, but we will come back to that. Tell me about the flower vendor? How has she come to harm?”

“Her name is Violette Cherier, and I do not know for certain that she has,” Robert admitted. “She seems to have vanished.”

“Hmmm,” the healer mused, “let me hear how little Violette has become embroiled in your…adventure.”

“You know her, then?”

“All Paris knows Violette, young ram. Her flower cart has been a fixture in the square for years, and her beauty and vivacity have won her many friends. What has she to do with you?”

Robert sank down on the ledge beside his helm, and recounted his capture and release from the Bastille, and the strange reception he received in the vendors’ quarter when he went there to thank her. When he had finished, the healer did not speak directly.

“Do you know what’s become of her?” Robert asked.

“The vendors protect one another,” he replied. “She is probably in hiding. Jean-Claude and Henri would be looking for her, seeking satisfaction for their chastisement. Rumor has it that they have been dealt with severely, and Garboneaux has been demoted in rank. You are under Montaigne’s protection. She has no such champion, and she is blind. You can be assured that her vendor friends have spirited her away to some safe haven. They will keep her whereabouts secret so that no one can lead the gendarmes to her. It is wise thinking. Do not trouble yourself about her. If she had met with foul play, we would certainly have heard of it. One thing you must know about Paris, young ram—the very air you breathe has ears, and word travels quickly.”

“I feel responsible for her,” Robert confessed. “She tried to help me, and I have cost her her livelihood, and endangered her life. She heard them holler ‘plague,’ when they removed my helm—she heard their panic, and yet she did not fear it. She even attacked the gendarme called Jean-Claude, followed his voice and kicked him soundly in his shins. That man was restraining me, and she was close enough to touch. What if I did have plague?”