Prisoner of the Flames (Leisure Historical Romance) (17 page)

“Go home to Scotland, my lord,” the abbot replied stonily. “There is nothing you can do here now save bring more death and destruction.”

“I cannot abandon Uncle Aengus. How could you even think it?”

“There is nothing you can do for him. Take the girl and go home—go now, while you are still able. She will find sanctuary in Scotland. That is all the guidance I can give you.”

“It sounds as though you want my uncle shut up in that dung heap. Is he your scapegoat, then? God forgive you. Love casteth out fear, but not at Mount St. Michael Abbey, eh? I may stand accused of sedition against the Church, but
you!
You stand guilty of sedition against Our Lord, and Jesus Christ! He never turned the blind away, or the innocent, or the guilty, for that matter, who came seeking sanctuary in His holy name. He never turned against His brethren in His
hour of danger, either, but then, He didn’t have to deal with Charles de Guise, did he? No. He only suffered under Pontius Pilate. I pray He pities you, Father. I, like yourself, am not Christian enough for that.” He spun on his heels and handed Violette over the refectory threshold. “Come, lass,” he murmured. “We will seek shelter elsewhere.”

“One moment!” the abbot called after them, his thunder turning them toward him. “Be warned, I must report your coming; it was expected by the hierarchy. We are watched, and I am bound to give account. You would do well to heed my advice.”

“You can make your report in hell,” Robert snarled. “Your thirty pieces buys your passage. How quickly did you turn my uncle over? You wouldn’t even grant him sanctuary in his own abbey! Why should we expect it? The holy Scriptures say that a man’s pride shall bring him low. There is no lower level upon holy ground than that which ambition seeks. Sleep well, good abbot, and be of good cheer. He whom you serve is proud, indeed.”

Neither of the fugitives spoke until they had boarded a barge anchored at the foot of the Mount. Although Violette was terrified at the prospect of another channel crossing, she dared not say so.

“You were wonderful,” she marveled at last, giving his arm a squeeze. “I could never have stood up to an abbot so bravely.”

“Sanctimonious old hypocrite,” Robert growled. “There, bigod, is heresy! No Huguenot could hope to carry the banner as proudly. Good Christ! He offered Uncle Aengus up as a lamb to the slaughter to save his own reprehensible hide.
Blood sacrifice!
My God, is this what Christianity has come to?”

“You will help him, your uncle?” she murmured.

“Violette, I must. I have no choice. Have you so soon
forgotten that I myself suffered in that godforsaken pesthole? He cannot die in that place. He will not—not while there is breath in my body.”

“What will become of me now?” she queried, almost afraid of the answer. Just for a moment, when she thought he might actually take her with him to Scotland, her hopes had risen. Though she didn’t fully understand the emotions that had overwhelmed her then, she did know that if they were to part, her heart would break. The kiss they’d shared, that warm, wonderful, urgent pressure of him leaning heavily against her, stirring passions and deep feelings that she didn’t even know existed, had made her hunger for more. Was this love, then? Oh, yes…but not for him. He had made his position all too plain. He lusted…Only that. Her heart was breaking.

He sighed. “I must return to Paris, lass,” he said. “We go there now. It is a lengthier voyage time-wise than it would have been had we not come to the Mount, and were making the journey overland on French soil, but safer, considering. I am sorry, Violette. I cannot leave you here.”

“We go there…the whole distance by water?” she panicked.

“Yes, lass. All will be well. This vessel is quite large—much more sound and seaworthy than the last, and we shan’t have to deal with the treacherous ocean currents down ‘round Brittany. We go straight through the channel. I know it frightens you, but we have no choice.”

“But…what will I do? Where will I go?”

“Since there is no sanctuary for you in the Church, I have no recourse save to involve seigneur de Montaigne. He will not turn you away, Violette. He is my friend, and yours. He has proven it, and he will not betray us.

“And what of your Francine?” she queried, pouting. Jealousy was new to her, making her say things she shouldn’t—things that didn’t seem to change anything, except to make
matters worse, once she’d said them. Yet she couldn’t help herself. It hurt too much to keep silent.

“She is not ‘my’ Francine; far from it. She is a strumpet—a bawd!”

“Does she whiten her face with alabaster powder, and paint her lips and cheeks with
focus
, and her eyes with kohl? I have heard of such practices by the strumpets, and court ladies as well. Oh, and, does she wear a caul of silk and pearls upon her head?” she added quickly. There was no mistaking the anger her words had stirred. His hot, moist breath was scorching, puffing down upon her like what she imagined might have just as easily come from a fire-breathing dragon, for he stood very close, and his hand had tightened ruthlessly around her arm.

“I’m sure I did not notice,” he seethed.

“Well, will you, when you see her again? I cannot see for myself, after all, and I am…curious.”

“I doubt I shall see her again,” he snapped. “Montaigne would never stand for treason in his own household. He’s doubtless sold her off by now, so you will just have to be curious. Enough now of Francine! She is the least of our worries. I am not liking that I must take you back to the city, but I have no choice. Let us pray that our disguises suffice us. If we can reach Montaigne’s château unseen by nightfall, I will leave you in his keeping, and see to Uncle Aengus. Then I will return for you.”

“They will capture you!” she cried. “You will be killed!”

“No. In this costume, I might just be able to get him out of that abomination. I must try.”

“And…then?” she murmured, almost afraid of the answer.

“Return to Scotland,” he replied.

“And…me…what of me?”

“If no miracle presents itself, I shall have no choice but to take you also, just as I told the abbot. The convents
there are not so steeped in politics, since our own religious conflict. We have John Knox to contend with, ‘tis true, but not all of Scotland has been converted, nor our convents and abbeys disbanded, though some say that is soon coming. At any rate, our beloved Queen Mary is come home and has held her own for a year, suing for peaceful coexistence. That is another bridge we must cross once we reach it. God alone knows what Scotland has come to since I left it. But you will fare well in my homeland, have no fear, and I will be close enough at hand there to make certain of it.”

“I will do as you say,” she murmured, her heart pounding in her ears at the prospect of a dream come true. She would make no fuss about convents now; that would come later if needs must…if she could only persuade him to take her with him…

“Violette, you must,” he said, cutting into her reverie. “If you should come to harm here now after all my labor to prevent it, my conscience would not let me bear it.”

The voyage was a kinder one than their first, as Robert had promised, but that did not spare Violette seasickness, or stark terror. By the time they reached the Paris fringes, she was weak from retching helplessly, and flushed, though she trembled with cold. And though he soothed her with gentle speech, promising all would be well once they reached the château, and he’d delivered her into sympathetic hands, she could not imagine it.

They came ashore at night, which, he told her, was what he had hoped. There would be less traffic on the roads and byways veining the city. They wasted no time collecting their mount from the steerage and made their way ashore traveling at a reasonable pace, so as not to arouse suspicion until they’d reached the château. But they found it in darkness, though the hour was not late. Robert adjusted his cowl
to hide his face and spent several anxious minutes pounding at the door until the steward, Alain, answered.

“Good servant, we are a monk and sister from the south, come for audience with your master. May we enter? It has been a long, exhausting journey.”

“Th-the master’s gone,” the man stammered.

“Gone? Gone where?”

“Why, to Bordeaux,” said the servant, seeming surprised at the question.

“How long ago? When did he leave?” Robert asked the man.

“Sunup yesterday.”

“Will he be returning?”

“Not likely ’til the spring,” the steward told him. “I cannot have you in. I’m all that’s left to tend the place, but for the scullions. He’s taken the rest. My orders were to admit no one. Like as not, they’ll give you shelter at the cathedral, or the abbey. You’ll see the spires once you clear the wood. Just follow the road there east apace.”

The door slammed shut in their faces then, and Robert led her back to their mount. He’d scarcely swung her up behind him on the animal’s rippling back, when she stiffened against him, and tugged at the sleeve of his robe.

“Hold, my lord,” she whispered. “Are we alone on this path, or does someone come?”

“There is no one else,” he replied. “The road is quite vacant.”

“I think not,” she murmured. “Listen, do you not hear…something rustling the brush. I feel no wind, and yet the foliage, it chatters.”

“I hear nothing, lass,” Robert said on a sigh. “If there were spies afoot, they would have set upon and seized us by now.”

“Still, I would be wary,” she said. “My hearing is quite reliable, my lord, and I did hear…something.”

“Do you hear it still?”

“No, not still…but I did. I’m certain.”

“I will be watchful,” he assured her.

“Where do we go?” she queried.

“Montaigne was my last hope,” Robert said. “I need time to think, and there
is
no time.”

“I am weary,” she moaned, “and I am hot.”

“I know,” he murmured. “I know you are exhausted. The only other place I know of in these parts where we can go is the ruins. I will have to return you there. I will hide you where we hid before, until I can discover what has become of Uncle Aengus. We have come full circle—back to where we first began, and accomplished
nothing.
God’s precious blood! This is madness!”

“Y-you would leave me there…
alone?”
The mere thought of it all but stopped her heart, which had begun to pound in her ears suddenly, beating a ragged rhythm.

“What other choice have I? I cannot march you into the Bastille alongside me. I am not liking this any more than you, believe me. The only other alternative that I can see is to involve your vendor friends. Would that suit you better, lass?”

“No, we cannot!” she cried. “They are innocent, and they struggle for their livelihood. Like as not, all save Jacques and Justine would turn me away here now. And even if another among them did consent to harbor me, they would have to renounce me should the soldiers come—they would have no choice, and even at that, they would more than likely die. I cannot bring that upon them—especially not Jacques and Justine, who took me in and raised me as their own.”

“Then we go to the ruins,” he said. “We have most of the provisions left. Somehow I will try to get word to Doctor Nostradamus. He frequents the ruins, you know. If he is still in Paris, he might even be there now. He will help us. Do you trust me, lass?”

“Y-yes,” she sobbed, “I trust you, but I fear that they will
kill
you, and no one will ever find me in that awful tomb beneath the ruins. Do you not understand? All my years I have cared for myself. I have made my way. I have been independent. I know every curbstone—every cobblestone in Paris, my lord, and I was
happy.
I knew no fear. I want my freedom back, and I cannot have it. There, bigod, is the fear that grips me now…of things unknown…of places unfamiliar, where I cannot find my way on my own, much less make my own way in the world as I once did with my flower cart.” She dared not tell him that above all that, her greatest fear, that which had shackled her most, was the dread of never seeing him again.

“This is my fault,” Robert said. “And I will rectify it. That is why I wanted to see you in safe hands before I do this thing I’m planning…in case, well, let us not think about that now. You shan’t be entombed at the ruins. I will show you the way to open the hatch from below if anything should…so you will not feel trapped. Before I deal with Uncle Aengus, I will first seek out Doctor Nostradamus. That is what must be. Now, hold fast! I will not be at ease until I have you safe below the castle ruins.”

But her grip was weak, and she leaned heavily upon him as he drove the gelding through the darkness. The cold air stung her hot cheeks and she shuddered helplessly—wracking, involuntary spasms of chills that turned her clammy skin to gooseflesh beneath the habit. Her sour, queasy stomach threatened to retch again, and she could barely keep her eyes from sliding shut. It was as though they had been weighted down, but that weight seemed to be crushing her entire body as well. She began to pray in order to keep awake. Nothing seemed real anymore. Sweat oozing from her pores beaded on her brow and began running down her cheeks. And though she dreaded it, she prayed the ruins
that she feared would materialize out of thin air, just so that she could rest.

They were still traveling at a moderate pace for fear of attracting attention, and it was some time before the steep incline that crawled up to the derelict castle presented itself in shrouded silhouette. Robert slowed the horse’s pace to take the grade, and glanced back over his shoulder toward Violette, clinging listlessly to him.

“We are here, lass!” he said, turning his attention back to the horse. “I will have you safely inside, and then see to this poor beast.”

But she didn’t answer. Her grip at the waist of his robe failed, then her hands fell away altogether. She slid off the animal’s back, and fell like a stone into a snarl of bramble and scrub that carpeted the knoll.

Robert vaulted from the saddle. “Violette! What is it, lass?” he murmured.

Unconscious, she made no reply.

They were halfway up the grade, and he tethered the horse in the bracken, and gathered her into his arms. The moon peeked through the clouds then and, as he turned, he thought he caught sight of a mounted rider standing at the edge of the wood they had just come from. He blinked, and the apparition was gone. Was he seeing specters now? Were his eyes playing tricks? He recalled Violette ‘s warning at the château, and stared long and hard toward the tall stand of yews, where he’d seen…something. But there was nothing there now, and he dismissed it as exhaustion, slung the provisions sack over his shoulder, and continued his climb to the summit.