Prisoner of the Flames (Leisure Historical Romance) (9 page)

“The words of a true adult,” the boy chided with a gusty sigh. “Are you sure that you are not a knight? You look like one.”

“I am sure.”

“Have you never jousted, then—not even once?”

“Not even once.”

“Ummm, a pity. I would really like to learn more of the sport from someone with firsthand experience.”

They had come to a stone bench, and the boy was still panting hard.

“What say we sit a spell?” Robert suggested. It was a shady spot, though the sun was warm beaming down, and once they were seated, he took the pears from his pouch. “Will you join me?” he said, offering one.

The boy licked his lips in anticipation of the juicy pear and swallowed audibly.

“Go ahead, take one,” Robert coaxed.

“You shall have to taste it first,” the boy lamented.

“Why?” Robert said. “They are quite fine, black Worcester, very ripe and delicious.”

“I am the king,” the boy said flatly. “All of my food must be tasted, you see.”

Robert vaulted to his feet and bowed awkwardly, almost dropping the pears.
“Your Majesty!”
he breathed. “Why did you not say so? I had no idea!”

“Sit, sit, I did not want you to,” the boy said, still eyeing the pears.

“Are you supposed to be out here unattended?” Robert
queried. Watching the boy’s eyes devouring the fruit, he withdrew his eating knife, and sliced a piece from the larger of the two. Now what to do? He didn’t want to remove the helmet before the king, and he turned his back, loosened the lower edge enough to eat the slice of pear, and then turned back, offering what remained. This time the boy took it, having observed the ritual with not a little interest, though he said nothing then. The pear had his full and fierce attention, and he sank his teeth deeply into it, making loving little moans as he made short work of it, ignoring the rivulets of sweet, sticky juice running down his chin.

“You didn’t answer my question, Your Majesty,” Robert urged. “Should you not be attended on your…outings?”

“I suppose,” he responded, “but my jailers never let me
do
anything. Every so often, I escape them. They are easily duped.”

“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but is that wise as things stand here now?”

“I do not think it much matters,” he replied with a shrug, discarding the core of the pear. Gripping the edge of the bench with both hands, he began swinging his feet beneath it. “I should be safe enough so long as both sides are fighting over me. This holy war is childish; grown men fighting over God. It will all be forgotten once they tire of the game, just as children tire of their toys. I trust none of them. Their play is too intense. If I am to be caught up in it, as I know I soon must be, and run the risk of dying for my pains, I shall have some fun first!”

“That you do not trust any of them is all the more reason why you ought to keep those who attend you close, I should think,” Robert said with a humorless laugh.

“Ummm,” the boy hummed, dismissing the thought with a hand gesture while scrutinizing him closely. “You now know that I am the king,” he said, “but you have me at a disadvantage. I have no idea who you are, sir. Identify yourself.”

“Forgive my want of conduct, Your Majesty,” Robert said. Vaulting to his feet again, he offered another bow. “I am Robert Mack, of Paxton Keep, Laird of Berwickshire, Scotland, at your service, Your Majesty.”

“Scotland? My, that is a distance. Your French is excellent. I would never have guessed. Ha! To think I’ve found a noble Scotsman blundering about my maze.”

“It is an odd business I will allow,” said Robert, taking his seat again in obedience to the king’s gesture.

“Well, my lord,” the king responded, “are all Scotsmen so lacking in manners that they remain helmed in a sovereign’s presence? It is quite rude, you know.”

“It is not meant to be, Your Majesty,” Robert defended. “What lies beneath my helm is unpleasant to view. I wear it to spare myself embarrassment, and you the sight.”

“I could command you to remove it.”

“You could, Your Majesty, but I have never heard it said that you are a cruel sovereign.”

“I shan’t command it. I am simply…curious. That is my prerogative, of course, as both child and king. But I am more curious as to how you view our country, and with which side you are aligned.”

Robert studied the boy’s face. He seemed so very wise, and yet so adolescent all at once, and he tried to recall himself at age twelve, seeking some insight toward dealing with what could well be a dangerous situation. There was clearly no pretense. It was simply as the boy said; he was curious, nothing more. That he obviously did not fully understand the skullduggery afoot came as no surprise. He was far too steeped in the stew to savor the broth, nor was it something Robert could fathom wisely enough to enlighten the youth. He hadn’t even begun to scratch the surface of the complexities of the conflict he’d become embroiled in himself.

“You do not want to commit yourself,” the boy said to his hesitation.

Suddenly, Robert thought of Nostradamus, and tried to view his new acquaintance with his spirit—with his instinct, as the healer had so vividly stressed, wondering if this could be one of the occasions he had warned of. That experiment sired truth, and he answered the question honestly.

“No, Your Majesty,” he said through a sigh, “I do not want to, but there is no disloyalty in it. I am unwittingly caught up in your madness here against my will.”

“Explain.”

Robert popped a cryptic laugh. “Hideous as my wretched head is, I should like to keep it yet awhile,” he said, with candor.

“And you shall, I promise you,” said the king. “I wish to hear tell of what has brought you here, and how you are…involved against your will. I like you. You speak openly—even now. Yes, I like you, indeed. Nobody does that with me, you know. That is why I didn’t tell you right away that I am the king. I wanted some plain speech first. I am so weary of being fawned over and placated and, well, you know.”

“I expect I do,” Robert replied. “It must be…difficult.”

“It is
boring
, my lord.”

Robert laughed again. “Well, I cannot promise that you will find my tale any less tiresome,” he said, “but I shall tell it, if you wish me to.”

“Good!”

“I came to France for counsel with your Doctor Nostradamus over my…disfigurement. I had no other thought save that in coming. My uncle, a monk of Mount St. Michael Abbey, arranged that seigneur de Montaigne sponsor me during my stay in your country. Unfortunately, the cardinal was slighted that the honor was not delegated to himself, and he has conscripted me to fight the Huguenots…”

“Out of spite!”
the king concluded for him.

“That could well be, yes,” Robert responded warily. Now he understood the ways of walking the edge of a sword.

“He can be rather…vengeful, the cardinal—far too vengeful for a holy man, I’ve often thought. I don’t really like him, but it isn’t permitted to dislike him openly. He is a Guise, and the cardinal atop it and Mama won’t hear a whisper of disrespect toward him.”

“What of the general?” Robert queried.

“Louis de Brach is afire to wipe the Huguenots from the face of the planet. He is a great warrior, and I like him well enough I suppose, but sometimes I must confess I do feel stifled enduring him. He is at odds with Admiral Coligny, and condemns some who stood beside my cradle. He would have me do likewise, and it often makes me ill at ease. I like the admiral. I think Mama does, too. She heeds him sometimes, but now that the duke is dead…”

“Well, I cannot comment upon the admiral. I have not met the man. But from my brief encounter with the general, I do see what you mean about his fervor to champion the cause. They are both strong-willed souls, bigod, your cardinal and general, but so are you, Your Majesty. If I were called upon to give you counsel, I would say heed none of them completely, and trust your own instincts. For one so young, you have a remarkable insight. I envy it. Were I as perceptive, I would not be facing this dilemma here now.”

“You will definitely fight, then?”

“I have no choice. I have given my word. The word of a Scot is his bond, Your Majesty, and now that I have met you, it will be easier.”

“How?”

“No man wants to do battle, lest he be mad. We fight to defend our homes and family, our faith, our integrity, when we are driven to it. Common logic will tell you that a foreigner doing battle with a faceless foe who has done him no harm—with whom he has no personal grudge—would have to be caught in a somewhat less than savory situation. True, the cause we champion, you and I, is the same, yet it is very
different. Surely you can see that? But now, having met you, having spoken so candidly with you, I can fight on your behalf. Even though the enemy remains faceless, he for whom I fight now has a face indeed, and thus the battle has taken on a personal nature.”

“I wish I could feel the cause more acutely,” the boy mused.

“You are thinking of those who stood beside your cradle,” Robert pointed out. “Your Majesty, it is not the individual who threatens you, it is the movement that threatens us
all.
There is no shame in that you do not yet have the means to separate the two.”

“I cannot hate them, the Huguenots.”

“You shall be a well-loved sovereign.”

“And you shall probably be killed,” said the king.

Robert fell silent. Something in the sound of that wisdom from the boy’s young lips wrenched his guts as though a fist had gripped them.

“Is that conjecture, or certainty, Your Majesty?” he ventured to ask.

“Let us just say,” the boy replied on an audible breath, “that I, Charles, the king, command you to proceed from this bench here where we now sit with extreme caution. The ground hereabouts sits steady under no man’s feet. Not even my own.”

R
obert reluctantly accompanied the troops dispatched to the
Huguenot village the following night. General Louis de Brach came to collect him with an escort at dusk, and led him to the outskirts of the village, where the troops were gathered, well concealed within the forest. There they waited according to plan until the Huguenots slept, and all was still save a resident owl and the restless woodland creatures their intrusion had startled.

Overhead, no stars blinked down through the steadily gathering cloud fabric, thick and low in the night sky. A storm was approaching, and the risen wind had turned the crisp autumn air colder. Leaves filtered down, no longer able to cling to the trees’ bony branches clacking together above. They smelled of dampness and decay, collecting in hushed whispers on the moss-clad forest floor.

Mounted, Robert waited at the head of the column he was to command, eyes close upon the general as he passed among the legion, the prohibitive helm with the visor in place affording him an advantage in that he could take stock of the situation, without the rest monitoring his scrutiny. This was not just a confrontation with the Calvinists. It was a fight for his survival. He was expendable—a problematic thorn in the cardinal’s side because his presence among them was suspect, and unless he was mistaken, Louis de Brach had no intentions of letting him leave the field alive. When the general finally reached him, he was ready.

“It is time, my lord,” de Brach growled. “The wind fights
with us. Not only will its wailing cover the sound of our approach, it will fan the flames and spread our handiwork. Assemble your men.”

“What of the forest?” Robert queried.

“What of it?”

“If the flames should spread—”

“What matters the forest?” the general interrupted. “Let the damnable trees burn. With so much at stake here, you worry over
timber
—Huguenot timber, at that?”

“I worry over our retreat once the fray is done,” Robert returned. “Can you not feel the wind? It blows in our direction.”

“Yes, yes, and changes course with each breath it breathes in storms such as this bearing down upon us. Group your men, I say, and be quick about it. I think you are not quite resigned. That would be most unwise. You had best remember what is at stake here and have done over trifles. Time grows short. As I have said, the wind is with us, and I do not like repeating myself. The rain will not be so accommodating. Make ready!”

With no more said, he disappeared, and suddenly a sea of torches sprang to life in the ink-black night. Like disembodied souls, they bobbed, wraithlike, in the darkness—another and another until the landscape glowed blood-red with thatch-roofed dwellings engulfed in flames.

Flushed from their homes, the Huguenots fell helpless in the confusion just as he had predicted. The strident sounds of the terror-stricken and dying rose over the wail of the wind, many of them women and children, and he took a sudden chill despite the heat the holocaust generated. The wind was blowing toward the forest, just as he had warned.

Hypnotized by the flames, he stared into them, compelled, despite his occupation with the battle, while out of the midst of the rising columns of smoke and flame came the bone-chilling voice of Nostradamus. Loudly it echoed—almost
too loudly to have been dredged of the stuff of dreams—waking
or
sleeping. Carried by the wind, it lingered:
“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 learn to divine them quickly, and well or you will see all you hold dear lost to the flames”

Robert gave a battle cry as sparks flew from the edge of a Huguenot sword come down hard upon his own, snapping him out of his reverie. Dazed, he groaned as the man behind the weapon fell dead beneath his mount’s prancing feet.