Prisoner of the Flames (Leisure Historical Romance) (19 page)

“It is quite a task you undertake.”

“But not impossible.”

“Perhaps not.”

“You mock me still!”

“Let us just say that I am awed by your zeal,” Nostradamus replied, tongue-in-cheek. “It will not be easy, what you plan, or have you even formed a plan?”

“I’ve had no time with her like this,” Robert admitted, raking his hair back roughly. “I am hoping I can get past the guards in this costume. If I can manage that, somehow I will liberate him.”

“That is quite a strategy you have contrived, I dare say,” Nostradamus said.

“There is only one person there inside those walls who has seen my face…Garboneaux, the jailer.”

“Whom you will encounter at the outset, like it or not,” the healer pointed out. “And he is jailer no longer, remember? He is reduced to sentry since Montaigne liberated you from that pest hold.”

Robert rocked back on his haunches. “You obviously have suggestions,” he said, waiting.

“Better than that,” said the healer slyly. “I have the solution!”

“Share it then. I would be done with this inhospitable waste of God’s good time—your beloved France.”

“I appreciate your disenchantment with my land, but we French are not all inhospitable creatures. You have met three friends here, have you not? Montaigne, myself, and that exquisite child lying there that worships you.”

“She wastes her worship,” Robert snapped. “But for me, she would not
be
lying there.”

“You cannot take the blame for all her woes, young son. Thinking such as that will solve naught here now.”

“You said you have a solution. I would hear it.”

“I cannot help you with Garboneaux. It is unfortunate that he has seen your face. It is not something that he would be likely to forget, and I doubt that habit will get you by him, since he has grown even more diligent now that he’s trying to have his appointment as jailer reinstated. The rest, however, can be managed, but not alone.”

“How, then?”

“I will help you.”

“You? How?”

“There is to be a tour of that god-awful place two days hence,” the healer explained. “The king wishes it. That is why I’ve sought you here so anxiously. It would be the best time to execute my plan. It will, of course, be dangerous. The cardinal is not scheduled to attend, nor the Queen Mother; she would not lower herself. I find that quite amusing, since she never leaves the king’s side—even sleeps in his chamber. She governs as if
she
were king—appoints officers—grants pardons—keeps the seal, and has the last say in counsel, yet she will not set her pretty foot over the threshold of that pest hole. Admiral Coligny will be there, however, as will the Duke of Guise, and Ruggiero, the court astrologer—when she can’t get hold of me, that is,” he hastened
to add. “The man has mediocre talent. He has not seen what I
know
—that pretty foot of hers is soon submerged in blood. I am scheduled to attend also. It is the admiral’s intent to prove to our young sovereign that the Huguenots imprisoned there are not receiving equal treatment. I am to bear witness and offer impartial evaluations as a physician, so long as those evaluations are in the admiral’s favor, that is. He raves injustice, and plays upon the king’s sympathy to release some of those who could be useful to him while Conde is marshalling allies in the south. Naturally, security will be tight, especially since the Queen Mother will not be hovering, and Garboneaux will be on his best and most alert behavior.”

“You hope to join me with their entourage?” Robert cried. “That is insane!”

“No, no, that could not be,” Nostradamus returned. “I hope that in the mass confusion, while their heads are turned, two humble monks might well slip in unnoticed, or, at the very least, unscrutinized.”

“Two monks?”

The healer nodded. “Your uncle is close in age to me, is he not?”

“Yes, but—”

“His build?”

“He is about your height, but he has no beard, and you are, well, you are a bit more…”

“Rounded?” Nostradamus concluded for him.

Robert nodded.

“Neither should present a real problem,” the healer assured him. “Hopefully, the cowl will cover my beard once I’ve tucked it inside. We can cover our faces easily enough. The stink in that dung heap is suffocating. It would not seem odd that we would forefend it. And I am sure your uncle’s cell will provide us with something we can pad him with.”

“You cannot mean that you intend to masquerade as a monk also?”

Nostradamus nodded.

“But, why? Wouldn’t it be easier to escort me in as you are? Surely no one would question me then—not in your esteemed company.”

“It would be easier, of course, but how would we explain my taking one monk in, and bringing two monks out—one in Benedictine black?” He smiled toward Robert’s brow pleated in a frown. “I will robe myself as you are robed,” he went on. “Underneath, I will wear my usual attire. We will ply the guards with flagons of wine, which I will prepare with powders that will…shall we say…subdue them? Quite harmless stuff, but effective. When we enter your uncle’s cell, I will give him my robe, and leave you. As I’ve said, I am expected. No one will view my presence in that dungeon as unusual. When you emerge with your uncle, I will be close by, and I will join you, pretending to recognize you both as old acquaintances. And then, as you suggested earlier, in my esteemed company, no one will hinder your departure.”

“Your plan is brilliantly contrived,” Robert admitted. “But why should you do such a thing—take such a risk, for someone you hardly know?”

The wise old seer smiled. “I’ve known you for eons, young ram; a pity that there are no more like you in France. Were that the case, she would not be so beleaguered with the burden of political madness. I have seen many men in this life—noble and peasant alike—but few have earned my admiration in the way that you have done.”

“What could you possibly find in the likes of me to admire?” Robert wondered out loud.

“An inherent compassion, and a Christian heart, an innocence that does delight me, and a sense of honor that is hewn of the stuff of gods and kings. Your heart is pure,
young Scot, though you’ve done murder—will do again—and nearly dishonored our Violette.”

Robert’s eyes flashed.

“Ahha!” Nostradamus erupted. “Only a sorcerer would know that, eh?” He laughed. It was a guttural chuckle that rumbled through his portly frame. “Take ease, take ease, there is no witchcraft here. I see the guilt of passion in those anxious eyes trained upon her. Your fortitude astounds me.”

“It is
myth!”
Robert hurled at him.

Again the healer laughed. “You would not have me hoist you up too high upon the pedestal, lest you tumble down and disappoint me, eh? You shan’t—disappoint me, that is. The mystery surrounding me is really quite a simple thing. I am a devout man, young son. God knows it; what mortal man chooses to call me matters not in view of that. I answer to Him only. He has given me the greatest gift—the ability to discern the spirits. With such comes the power to command those spirits, or, if you will, manipulate them. He has also given me sight—I think as a reward, I
know
as a necessity for the good of man—future man in particular, for some of what I see is not for now. I never abuse the gifts He has given me, nor do I ignore or waste them. If I would squander them upon you, the least that you can do is pay attention.”

“More riddles?”

“Only if you choose to make it so.”

“You speak now of Violette.”

“You are learning.”

Robert stared toward her, clouding. “She is just a child,” he said, “a beautiful child, but a child nonetheless—an innocent—and I feel responsible for her and protective because of it.”

“This is why you nearly ravished her?”

“I nearly ravished her because I am a man with needs that she does arouse. I lust, sir, nothing more.”

“What stopped you?”

“My conscience!”

“I see…and was she willing?”

“Until I frightened her,” Robert said dismally.

“Will you hear advice?”

“I will hear it.”

“But will you
listen?”

“Speak it!”

“You are so drowned in your own vain despair—so steeped in self-pity, that you can see naught beyond it. You have shed the helm from your face, but not from your mind. I tried to tell you once to learn to see with your spirit. It is a handsome spirit—as handsome as that half of your face there is ugly, and it will reward you handsomely if you would let it. But no, you will have none of it. And now, I tell you this—at some preordained moment, God gives each soul in whom He breathes the breath of life a special gift—an offering by way of opportunity. That soul has but to recognize what God offers and it is granted. The opportunity of which I speak comes only once, a test, if you will, of faith, of trust, and, yes, of courage. For sometimes that is what it takes to seize the gift and hold fast to it. Be of good courage, Robert Mack. It is not a prophesy, this, it is a warning. When God speaks to you, young son, you had best listen. The Scriptures will bear witness that the one thing He will not abide is wasted breath, and you can ill afford to tempt His wrath here now.”

Nostradamus did not hover through those two endless days that brought Violette to the brink of crisis. He left Robert there alone with her to meditate upon his wisdom, explaining that it was important for him to go about his normal duties in the interim so as not to arouse suspicion. Subsequently, his comings and goings were cautions and brief, under cover of darkness.

Robert sat wide-eyed beside the delirious girl, sponging her face, which was on fire with fever, and forcing the lozenges through crusted lips that moaned and trembled, calling his name. Each time her ravings became violent, he tethered her in strong arms, for he would not allow the healer’s restraints. Instead, he held her and rocked her and clamped massive fists around her slender wrists whenever she made attempts to gouge the blisters, until bracelets of bruised skin encircled them. Exhaustion was his enemy then. It weighed heavily upon him. His body cried for sleep. When he could no longer deny it, he drew her close and held her fast in such a grip that any movement she might make would surely wake him, in much the same way that he always slept clutching his sword in dangerous places. Only then would he shut his eyes. He’d slept for several hours, though it seemed only minutes, when the feeble sound of her voice so close in his ear woke him with a start.

“My lord,” she murmured. “My
lord
…!” Reluctant to wake, he moaned, and she spoke again. “My lord…I thirst…”

Groggily, he vaulted upright, his hooded eyes staring out of focus, trying to decide if he’d dreamed the voice, or actually heard it. After a moment, his vision cleared, and he took her measure. She seemed less animated, her sightless stare less glazed, and her skin appeared to have fewer blotches. At the very least, he was certain some of what remained had lost its fire. A surge of relief washed over him, and something else—disappointment that she had called him ‘my lord,’ and not Robert, as she’d begged to in her delirium.

“Violette?” he cried, addressing what he prayed was a rational voice.

“I thirst…,” she moaned.

He snatched up the water skin and moistened her lips. They seemed cooler against the fingers that spread the
droplets there. Supporting her in his arm, he let her drink from the skin, then felt her brow for fever. It had started to abate. Thanking God, he pulled her close, but he had scarcely gotten the supplication out, when anger flared again, and he shook her.

“You little fool!” he snapped. “I should up-end you here and now and thrash your bottom like the child you are. Why did you not take the remedy? Foolish child, we’ve nearly lost you.”

“Thrash me…beat me…flay my body raw if it please you—anything, my lord, but…please, I beg you, do not leave me! Do not send me away. Please…I beseech you…do not shut me up in the convent.”

“It was
deliberate
, this?” he breathed. The cold fingers of a chill crawled the length of his spine. “Answer me!”

“I…I knew no convent would have me with plague…not in this land…or yours.”

“God’s
beard!”
he gritted through clenched teeth. “Did it never occur to you that you might die?”

“I wish that I had,” she sobbed. “That is what I truly wanted.”

“Ahhh, child,” he moaned, crushing her close.

“I am
not
a child,” she reminded him with passion, “and I love you! Please do not abandon me.”

Trembling with something he could not name, Robert searched her face. No. She was not delirious now. She was very much in earnest. Suddenly, his lips descended upon hers. Her weak arms were holding him fast in an embrace that drained his senses dry and brought him to full arousal, despite the impotence of her grip. He crushed her close, every cord and muscle in his battle-conditioned body on fire against her with the primal heat of passion. He gathered her closer still, drinking her in as though he would absorb her very being into his own.

“So! We are recovered!” said a voice from behind, and
Robert pulled back sharply spinning toward the sturdy, dark shape of Nostradamus. The man
was
a sorcerer. He hadn’t even heard him enter or felt the rush of air funneling through the hatchway above that would have preceded him. In that heavenly, mind-altering embrace, the earth could have opened up and swallowed him. He would never have known.

“Th-the crisis is past,” he stammered dumbly. Laying Violette back gently on the pallet, he raked his fingers through the hair waving across his moist brow.

“Or, has it just begun?” Nostradamus queried pointedly.

Robert ignored the innuendo, and moved aside to let the healer examine her.

“She mends,” Nostradamus concurred, continuing his evaluation, “but she must have much rest if we would keep her. We are fortunate to have this place. We may need it for some time yet before she can move on, and being so isolated, we shan’t spread plague through the city. The pallet should be burned, of course, but we cannot risk a bonfire. We shall have to remove it to the smokehouse and gather enough gleanings from nature to replace it. I have brought a fresh robe for her, however. That will have to suffice.”