Prisoner of the Flames (Leisure Historical Romance) (8 page)

“We should all be so ‘blind’ as our Violette,” the healer observed.

“Sir?”

“For all her blindness, she sees far better than you ever will, young ram, because she sees with her spirit.”

“Riddles? Montaigne warned me to expect them.”

“ Tis no riddle.
Pay attention!”
he thundered. “Step out of yourself, and hear words that one day may well save your life,
or hers
if you will but heed them.”

“I do not understand your convoluted speech. Can you not speak it plain?”

“Violette cannot see with her eyes, and so she sees with her spirit—her instincts. It is common knowledge that when one of our senses fails, other senses are heightened to compensate. In Violette ‘s case it is her sense of perception that has been heightened.”

Robert’s ragged sigh, and brows knit in a puzzled frown replied to that. He was no student of philosophy. It had no hilt to grab, and no sword point to thrust.

“You still don’t understand?” Nostradamus said, vexed.
“You
are the blind one. She knew without seeing you that you did not have plague. Her instincts told her. She did not need the physical proof her eyes might have provided to know it was safe to champion you—to come near to you. She saw this with her spirit.
You
must learn to see with your spirit, young ram. There will be times when it will be vital that you do so, and you are so preoccupied with how others
view
you
, you cannot see
them.
I would advise you cultivate the art—and quickly. If you take nothing else away from this interview, take that advice to heart. As gospel.”

“It is a warning, this?” Robert asked.

“Riddle—warning—prophesy—call it by what name you will, but know it as plain fact. You are out of your element here. This is not Scotland, where war means hand-to-hand combat on an open field, and there is at least some semblance of honor in it. War here means something else entirely—something more political than physical, though blood lust is an integral part of it. It is waged primarily in the shadows—clandestine—deceptive. There are no real ‘sides,’ only ambitions, and a man can lose his head without even knowing why. You are ill-equipped to wage this kind of war, my blind young ram.”

“But I learn quickly. I have met your Charles de Guise, Cardinal of Lorraine, and his henchman, General Louis de Brach.”

“What do think you of these men?”

“Guise is unfit to wear the robes of a cardinal, and Louis de Brach thinks he rules him, but that unholy prince of the Church will cut him down like wheat in the field the minute he is of no more use to him. This is why he keeps him close, so that he may use him up before he strikes like the viper he is.”

“You are learning. Tell me, how do you view the Huguenots?”

“I pity them! Blind faith in God empowers them, but faith need not be so blind as to annihilate God’s faithful. They are too gullible. They should be warned, and I cannot do it, else I put Montaigne and my uncle in grave danger. The Huguenots are unprepared for what will come, and many will die needlessly.”

“Who is speaking in riddles now?”

“There will be slaughter done, and I am to be part of it. I
have no choice. You must know, or we would not be meeting here in these ruins at the midnight hour, but openly in your rooms, and your reply would not have been encrypted.”

“Never grieve for what cannot be changed,” the healer said.

“Montaigne tells me that the boy king is seduced by both factions now, and that the Guises head the Church in France and vie for the Queen Mother’s support. How does young Charles IX feel about such atrocities in the name of God?”

“His sympathies, like the country, are divided. He is very fond of Admiral Coligny, and intimidated by the Guises, particularly the cardinal, who has intimidated half of France—the literate half.”

“He will not sit long upon the throne, I think.”

“He will sit long enough to make the massacre you fear look like one of his mama’s mystery ballets, young ram,” the healer ground out through a bone-chilling chuckle. “But we will both be gone from here by then—you to your destiny and me to my rest. It is no secret. I told her long ago that she would see three of her sons become king, but that the royal Valois line would vanish with the last, without descendants. Though, while he lives, your ‘boy king,’ he will shed more blood than you could in two lifetimes of soldiering.”

Robert did not probe that augur. The way the healer spoke held his tongue. It really didn’t matter. He would have no dealings with the boy king, or any of these that Nostradamus spoke of. He would fulfill his obligation in the looming battle, and be away. There was no more reason to remain in France, though he did hope to see Violette before he returned to Scotland.

“Will I see her again?” he said, as though speaking to himself. “I would like to find her—to thank her. She was kind to me. Not many have shown me…kindness in this life.”

“You will find her when you do not seek her,” Nostradamus returned.

More augur; it was maddening. Why couldn’t the man speak plainly if he knew? But he must know, else he would not have said it. The esteemed Michel de Nostredame was not one to waste words. Or was he simply trying to salve his disappointment with hope—any shred of hope?

“And what of you, Doctor, are we to meet again?”

“Somewhat…abruptly, young ram, when you least expect it.”

“Doctor Nostradamus,” Robert said haltingly, “before you said that you were not my last hope. What did you mean by that? If, as you say, there is no way to make me whole…?”

“That marvel puzzles you, does it? I speak not of the aesthetic, but of what lies beneath. Hear my words—you, born of the fire sign, beware, for it has marked you. All your life, the flames will stalk you, Robert of Paxton. Listen well and remember, for I speak this augur only once: The flames attend you. They will spring to life about you at each turning point your life takes ’til ’tis done, for the winds of change fan them like a bellows. Tempt them not, but heed them well—they will guard you, and they will guide you to the woman your heart desires, but they also herald Hell itself. You must learn to divine them, young Scot. You must school yourself to divine them quickly, and well or you will see all you hold dear lost to the flames.”

“They say you are a sorcerer that you can foresee the future thus…that you know of things yet to come.”

“There is no sorcery in predicting the future, young ram, since the past so often repeats itself. What is the future, after all, but the bastard child of time—the illegitimate, ill begotten blunders of man? Why I have been chosen to see it, I cannot say, unless it be to warn mankind that he must change it, for it is truly terrible—beyond imagining.”

“I still do not see—”

“See with your spirit,” Nostradamus intoned. “What have I just been telling you? Do not plow what can be under the soil of what cannot. You are a prisoner of the flames that have disfigured you ’til you—like the Phoenix—rise above them. Chew on that food ’til next we meet. Look past the obvious. See with your spirit, Robert of Paxton.…”

T
o Robert’s surprise, Montaigne was waiting up for him when
he returned to the château. It was very late, but the magistrate had wine brought to the parlor study, and sat in his favorite Glastonbury chair beside the chimney while Robert highlighted his interview with Doctor Nostradamus.

“I’m sorry, Robert,” Montaigne said, genuinely. “I know you do not think it, but I had hoped.”

“It was folly, my coming. I think I always knew it. I shan’t pretend that I am not disappointed. And worse yet, I must take part in this raid I want no truck with. Has there been any more word about when it is to be?”

“No, but there is something else,” Montaigne said. “After you left, I did receive a summons from the Queen Mother, which is just as well, of course, because it legitimized my lie. I am to have an audience with Catherine de’ Medici on the morrow, and you must come with me.”

“But, why?”

“Because you are not safe here alone,” Montaigne told him. “If they should come for you, I will not know of it, and I cannot protect you if I do not know what has happened to you.”

“I don’t see how you can protect me in any case,” Robert said dismally.

“I must try. We must be inseparable now, you and I. Between your battle prowess, and my wits, we might just be able to get you out of France all of apiece.”

“It isn’t my hide I’m worried about.” Robert said. “It is yours, and Uncle Aengus’s.”

“Then indulge me.”

“I can hardly march into the Louvre helmed. At the very best, I would be viewed as insolent. And if I dared to venture in without it, there would surely be a hue and cry over plague.”

“There is a maze, and gardens, with stone benches in the walled courtyard at the Louvre. You may wait for me there. It is quite beautiful this time of year, and private. You will not be disturbed. I will advise the Queen Mother of your presence, and your need for privacy. No one would dare to take you from the court without her permission, and the king would not do such a thing without consulting her. It is what must be, Robert. I will not leave you here alone. God only knows what plans are hatching.”

“How much will you tell her, surely nothing of the raid?”

“No, no,” Montaigne assured him, “only that which pertains to your…personal misfortune, and your mission here to consult with Nostradamus. I will plead your cause to spare yourself embarrassment, and the court your helmed presence.”

“As you wish,” Robert conceded, “but I believe you are being overcautious.”

“Better that, than sorry after. Now then, you must to bed. We rise early. Though, I could have Francine visit your quarters…if you have need of…company beforehand?”

“No. Do not disturb her. I have more need of sleep than company. Thank you, Michel, you are most generous, but I think it best that I abstain from carnal pursuits for the remainder of my stay here. I must have my wits about me and my strength unsapped if I am to do battle—on the field and off—and wenches muddle both.”

“As you wish, but if you should change your mind …”

“I will be sure to make it known. But for now, you must let
me prepare for battle as I always do…in solitude, and prayer.”

The day dawned fair, and they broke their fast with ale, fresh baked bread, and boiled eels, for it was a fish day. They ate heartily, since they had no idea if they would be returning in time for dinner. This was more for Robert’s sake than the magistrate’s. Montaigne would certainly be provided food at court if his stay was to be a lengthy one. Since anonymity would deprive Robert of similar fare, he convinced the Scot to take along two ripe black Worcester pears, should he grow hungry waiting in the garden. Then, setting out on horseback, they rode leisurely to the Louvre.

They hadn’t gone far when Montaigne informed him that they were being followed. The spy wore no uniform. He wore plain dress in colors that blended well with the color of his mount, making him nearly invisible. They were both expecting surveillance, and made a game of making his task difficult. When they reached the Louvre, they did so with a flourish. Let the nodcock carry tales to Louis de Brach, or the cardinal—whomever he pleased. All they would learn was that Montaigne was where the cardinal already knew he would be, answering his summons from Catherine de’ Medici, which he himself had seen delivered.

The maze fascinated Robert. Paxton Keep had none, and he set out at once to walk it leisurely, his feet crunching the graveled path. It was rather high as mazes went, sculpted out of juniper, as was the even taller hedge wall that enclosed the entire garden. Every so often, there was a stone bench, and he didn’t have to wonder at the wisdom of that. By noon, he had become quite lost, and took advantage of one to rest and get his bearings. It wasn’t long before he started out again, but he hadn’t gone far when a boy rounding a corner ran headlong into him.

“Whoa there, poppet!” he cried, staring down toward the fine blue eyes of a prepubescent boy, whose quick intake of breath was no surprise; they had collided heavily, and both were winded.

“Are you a knight?” the boy said, as Robert steadied him and let him go.

“No,” Robert said, noting the boy’s deflated posture at his answer, “just an admirer of these wonderful gardens here.”

“Oh,” the boy said dejectedly. “I thought perhaps there was to be a joust. We haven’t had one in some time you know, not since King Henri died in one. I would so enjoy some excitement. All this restoration fuss is boring, and it shall go on, and on. Grown-ups are never satisfied. I will be old and gray, and still the Louvre will be under construction.”

Robert laughed, taking the boy’s measure. There was nothing unusual about him, just a child in plain dress, with grass-stained hose and windblown hair, and yet he was extraordinarily engaging.

“Do you often run the maze?” he queried, as they began to travel it again. He had changed directions following the boy’s course in hopes of finding his way out.

“Not often enough,” the boy said, scowling. “I’m not supposed to run. I have this cough, you see, and running makes it worse. They always know when I’ve been at it. I wheeze, you know. Then I catch it. Doctor Nostradamus says my lungs will collapse if I don’t take care, and then I shouldn’t be able to breathe. I worry about that sometimes…what it would be like not to be able to breathe. I’ve once even held my breath until I saw stars. It was not very pleasant.”

“You know Doctor Nostradamus, then?”

“Oh, yes, he treats all the children here at court, and the adults, too.”

“You like him, I take it?”

The boy shrugged. “He frightens me,” he whispered. “Some of what he has foretold has come true, you know. He
predicted King Henri’s
death!
He won’t predict my future, though—to me, that is. But I see something in his eyes at times…something disapproving. I do not think he likes me much.”

“Children are often frightened of adults,” Robert opined. “I was when I was a boy. More often than not, when they gave me disapproving looks it was for my own good.”