Prisoner of the Flames (Leisure Historical Romance) (21 page)

“Ummm,” the captain grunted, thinking on it, before he snatched it from the healer’s hands and walked away.

The others came closer then, reaching toward it eagerly, and the captain held it high.

Nostradamus gave a dramatic gasp. “You would accept God’s blessings from His messengers with no kindness rendered?
Kyrie eleison!”
he breathed, crossing himself.

The captain stopped in his tracks, slapping his comrade’s hands away from the crock in his grip. “All right, all right, stop your puling! Five minutes—no more.” Turning to the nearest man, he charged, “Jacques, you take them.”

The reluctant appointee shuffled forward, hurrying them along the passageway, close eyes upon the wine crock being passed behind. When they reached the cell, and the man had flung the door wide, Nostradamus concealed his beard behind his handkerchief, and looked him squarely in the eyes with a burning stare that possessed the power to hypnotize, so thought Robert, or at the very least, the power to disarm.

“You had best get back before they drain that crock to the dregs,” the crafty healer said levelly. “It would be a pity if you missed your share. I have no other to lend you. Do not trouble over the lock. What harm can we two helpless holy men do?”

“I’m supposed to lock it after you,” the man protested.

“Yes, yes, I know,” the healer said velvet-voiced, “but there is no need. Where could we go? There is no way out but back the way we came right past your station. By the time you lock us in the wine will be gone when you rejoin your friends, for the gluttons they are. Go and have your portion, and collect us in five minutes’ time. Have no fear, my son. We do only God’s work here.”

The guard, grumbling in agreement, ran back the way they had come, and they plunged into the narrow, filthy cell and groped in the darkness for Aengus.

A feeble moan directed them at last, and while Nostradamus struggled out of his habit, Robert gathered his uncle in strong arms. What little light seeped through the small, barred aperture in the door showed the young laird clearly enough to see that Aengus had been severely beaten, and he crushed him close.

“Ahhh, Uncle Aengus, God forgive me,” he sobbed.

“R-Robert?” his uncle moaned.

“Shhh
, be still! We’re going to get you out of here.”

“Are you mad?” Aengus murmured. “I have prayed all this while that by now you would be safe and away. It is too late to help me here. Go quickly, before they find you out. Go, Robert! I will not suffer you to die on my account.”

“Neither will I suffer you in such a place on mine,” Robert gritted through clenched teeth. “Doctor Nostradamus and I have formed a plan. You will be out of here in minutes, if you will hold your peace and do as I command you.”

“D-Doctor Nostradamus…
here?”

“Yes, now let me help you into this,” he charged, snatching the habit the healer thrust toward him, “and I shall introduce you.”

“There is no time for amenities now,” said the healer, taking cautious steps toward the door. “Go! Hurry, young ram. That guard will soon return.”

Nostradamus disappeared then, but Robert scarcely noticed, struggling to help his uncle don the habit. The old monk could scarcely stand, and dressing him was clumsy in the darkness.

“No,” Aengus moaned, arresting the frantic hands wrestling with the awkward homespun garment. “It is too late, Robert. There is no use. Save yourself. I…cannot. I am too weak.”

“You are a Haddock,” Robert seethed. “Call your strength from that. Nary a one of my mother’s kin ever backed down from a fight, while breath was in his body. That blood flows in your veins, too. Now, come! I will support you, but you must help me. We have risked much in coming, and I will not leave this place without you.” He hauled him to his full height. “Lean on me, and cover your face with the handkerchief,” he said. “I will pretend that you have taken sick. The stench in here makes such a thing believable, bigod. Moan if you must, but do not speak aloud. Doctor Nostradamus is close by. He will help us to safety.”

“You should be safe at home in Scotland. That dream made all of this worthwhile. We are dead men here now, you and I. I am not able, I tell you!”

“You
are,”
Robert insisted. Stooping, he plumped up a mound of straw, and threw the fouled Bastille blanket over it. “Quickly! The guard comes,” he warned. “We cannot let him enter in here now.”

Supporting him in strong arms, Robert led him outside and closed the cell door behind them just as the guard approached. But, to Robert’s horror, it was not Jacques whose quick step echoed so angrily along the passageway. It was Garboneaux, and Nostradamus was nowhere in sight.

“God’s beard!” Robert muttered. “Be still, Uncle Aengus, and follow my lead. This jailer knows me well. There may be trouble here.”

In the flickering torchlight set in motion by the jailer’s hasty stride, Robert read the palpable anger in him, lowered his head in an attempt to escape without detection, and began speaking to his uncle, moaning now in earnest.

“Come along,” he soothed. “I knew the strain would be too much for you, and it was all for naught. He will not repent, that one. We waste our pains, and our prayers upon him.”

“All right, hold there! Who in the hell are you, and how did you get down here?” the sentry spat. Speak up! My
guards all lie cup-shotten—besotted to the gills. Was it you, then, who brought that accursed wine? Answer me!”

“Your good captain permitted us,” Robert said steadily, ignoring the issue of the wine. “We thought to persuade our brother of his folly for his soul’s sake, but, of course, it was no use, and now my colleague is stricken. Forgive me, but I must get him to cleaner air.”

“Must you now,” said Garboneaux, looming over them. All at once he broke the pose. In the blink of an eye, he reached out and threw back the young laird’s cowl. He gasped. “God’s body!
You!”

Robert shoved his uncle clear and drew his sword. “What? You did not expect me?” he responded. “You are more of a fool than I thought, Garboneaux.”

Loosing a string of passionate curses, the sentry drew his own weapon and lunged, but Robert quickly sidestepped the thrust, and cold steel sparked in the shadowy passageway as their swords struck hard.

Robert cast a quick sidelong glance toward Aengus, slumped against the fouled wall slimed with mold. He was watching the exchange with anxious eyes, but there was no time to monitor him then. The monk’s robe was a hindrance to his form. Awkward in it, his timing was off, and the sentry quickly got the better of him, rending the blade from his hand with a mighty, well-executed blow. It came to ground close to Aengus, and as Robert lunged to retrieve it, Garboneaux lunged also, with aim to run him through.

Sinking to the floor, the old cleric snatched up the sword and tossed it.

“Robert! Behind you!” he cried in time, for the young Scot caught the weapon and rolled over, impaling the sentry on the outstretched blade as he dove after him.

The combatants froze motionless. From somewhere on the peripheral fringes of that suspended moment, Robert heard Garboneaux’s weapon strike stone as it dropped to
the floor, and he watched while the sentry’s burly hands gripped the blade embedded in his belly.

“Christ have mercy!” Aengus breathed, crossing himself.

Robert gave the sword in his hands one final thrust that pitched the sentry over sideways. With one mighty shove, he scrambled out from underneath the hulking giant, who lay dead on the filth-encrusted floor, and scrambled to his feet.

Taking back his sword, Robert quickly wiped it clean on Garboneaux’s tunic, then sheathed the weapon out of sight again beneath his robe. Straightening up, he flexed his shoulder, for he’d taxed the wound in the foray, then dragging the sentry’s bloodied corpse inside his uncle’s cell, he shut the door upon it. Grabbing the extra sword, he gave it to his uncle, who was slumped against the wall, and turned him down the passageway.

“Conceal it,” he charged. “We may have need of it before ‘tis done, and we cannot leave it here. Lean on me. We will escape this pit of living death here yet.”

Aengus made no reply, and when they reached the guards’ station, they found them quite drunk and docile, and passed them by with hardly any notice.

“It will be some time before these find Garboneaux,” Robert whispered. “Now all that remains is to elude the king, and Coligny.”

“You are your father’s son,” Aengus murmured, “and to think that I envisioned you embracing
my
vocation.”

In spite of himself, Robert laughed. “Do not bestow all the laurels upon me,” he said. “The plan was hatched by Doctor Nostradamus. Be still now as we climb. I am hearing voices. Pray that the good doctor’s is among them. I have no qualms over ending Coligny’s days, but I have a liking for the boy king, and I do not want to spill his blood, though I will if needs must, to see you freed.”

The voices came clearer, and as they rounded the angled wall that led to the upper level, they pulled up short before
the admiral, the angular-featured, raisin-eyed astrologer Ruggiero, splendidly robed and trumpeting officiously, and the boy king himself. A string of guards had fanned out on the stairs behind, and Aengus moaned and sagged in Robert’s arms, scarcely conscious as the formidable party approached.

“What’s this?” Coligny erupted, pulling up short.

“Only two humble monks come to minister to the sick and dying,” Robert said, bowing to the king, his voice driven up an octave, and muffled behind the handkerchief. “My brother here has taken sick from the stench below. I am in haste to see him into the fresh air before he vomits, my Lord Admiral.”

“You know me?” Coligny blurted.

“All France knows the most esteemed Admiral,” Robert flattered. “Would that the circumstances were less critical so that we might pay our respects properly. I beg you, please forgive us…”

While Coligny pondered that, Ruggiero craned his neck for a clearer view. The king ventured closer, studying Robert beneath the deep cowl that hid his face from the others in that dark place. But it could not hide it so completely from the boy at his vantage looking up. Their eyes locked, and in that terrible instant the Scot knew that, even though the young king hadn’t seen his face without the helm that day in the maze, the boy had seen it now, and made the connection.

“I think I know this man,” said the king. “I do not recall his name, but, yes, we met at court, this…monk and I. We strolled in the palace garden.”

Robert swallowed hard. There was nothing in the boy king’s voice to assure safety, though he plumbed for it, and Coligny’s scrutiny riddled him as well now, clearly evaluating yet another rival vying for the boy king’s support.

Robert took the gamble. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he said, steadily, offering another bow. “We are acquainted.”

The king continued to stare. There was no mistaking the shiver in that stare. Was he boy or monarch today? And which one would spare him? Young Charles studied him thoroughly. It was the longest moment Robert had ever suffered, and then he realized
the boy knew.
The king glanced beyond toward the lower regions thoughtfully. It was just a fleeting glance, though the Scot read it well the instant the boy’s eyes fastened upon Aengus.

“Well?” barked the admiral. He shifted his weight and posed, the picture of impatience, arms folded across his chest. “Are these monks acceptable, Your Majesty?” he urged. “We do not relish papist vomit upon our footwear.”

“Oh, quite,” said the king. Taking out his own handkerchief, he passed it beneath his angular nose. “I doubt that I can bear that stench below, either,” he choked.

“But, Your Majesty!”

“Enough, Coligny!” the king decreed. “I have seen all I need to see here. You’ve made your point. You have valid cause for indignation. I needn’t lose my last meal to satisfy you. Mama shan’t be pleased if I do. She was not given over to my coming so soon after my chill. And you are quite right. She shan’t thank you for it if I am toted home, with my new hose and doublet painted with bile. Come! Let us help these two away. That poor soul there is barely conscious.”

The admiral nodded briskly at that, and several guards came forward.

“Thank you, but no. I can manage this,” Robert insisted. “It would be best that you do not come in too close contact. I am sure it’s nothing, but with so much plague about, I think it wise to err on the side of caution and not jeopardize yourselves…or our good king. I have been stricken and recovered. There is no danger in my laying hold of him. If you would but let us pass, I would seek a physician before we return to our abbey.”

Ruggiero backpedaled so quickly he nearly lost his footing.
“Your Majesty, my Lord Admiral, I beg you come away!” he wheezed, shielding his nose and mouth with a gaudily beringed hand. “This does not bode well here.”

The soldiers fanned out wide then, scattering, but as the Scot eased his uncle by them, the king’s voice rose above their anxious murmuring.

“We spoke that day of loyalty and wisdom, as I recall?” he said to Robert as they came abreast of him.

“Yes, Your Majesty, we did.”

“And I was touched that you imparted both to me.”

“I am glad, Your Majesty.”

“Do you recall our parting words that day, good monk?”

“I think I do, Your Majesty.”

“Ahhh, good. I gave you food for thought on that occasion. We had so fine a…theological discussion it would have disappointed me if you had forgotten. I do so hate to waste my breath. Perhaps one day we might find time to talk again.”

“I would like that, Your Majesty.”

“Good!” said the king. “Safe…
home
, then?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Robert murmured, reading his message well, “my eternal praise and gratitude, as always.”

“Ahhh, look!” the king rejoiced, turning toward the stairs that led to the upper regions. “Here is Doctor Nostradamus now,” he cried, beckoning. “Good doctor, come! I fear we have a patient for you.”

Winded, the old physician lumbered down the stairs to meet them. “Brother Raphael, Brother Andre? Is that you, there? Why, bless my soul, it is! What do you here?”