Prisoner of the Flames (Leisure Historical Romance) (24 page)

“Have you no riddles, no metaphors, no cryptic verse to
mark this mad venture, then?” Robert probed, in need of a positive thought.

Nostradamus laughed outright. “Even such as that, which you do so renounce, would be welcome in the shadow of such folly as this, eh?”

Robert hung his head. “Before, it was none save myself I needed to worry over,” he said. “I was a warrior doing battle. Warriors need no omens, and they are better left without…sight. A warrior needs only a steady hand, and a rational mind—quick to calculate. Now, there is Violette. Love dilutes reason, sir. A warrior should have no truck with it. And then there are the vendors.”

“But you are the warrior still.”

“True,” Robert agreed, “as I always will be.”

“Then, draw your strength from that. Forget all else, take up your sword, and go carve out your destiny.”

There was a long, silent moment then—so solemn that not even the woodland creatures’ voices violated it.

“We will not meet again,” Robert said.

“No, Robert of Paxton, Laird of Berwickshire, we will not,” Nostradamus confirmed. “Our paths divide here in this wood. I have done all that I can to groom your spirit for this moment. I told you once that I would not be there when an even greater sight was vital to your life. That hour is upon you.”

“You also told me once that you were not my last hope. If that is so and we are parting, won’t you tell me who is?”

The healer cast him a disdainful smile. “Not ‘who,’
what,”
he scorned. “Violette is not the only blind one, but no matter.
Love
is your last hope, Robert of Paxton. It is the physician that you seek. You already have it in your Violette. Now see if you can keep it. Step cautiously, young ram. Your horns are locked with greater antlers—greater than you have the power to subdue. Charge with your spirit—your inner eye. It is the only legacy that I can leave you.” He turned to go
then, but gave a lurch and waddled back, producing a pouch from the pocket of his gown. “I nearly forgot,” he said, handing it over. “A parting gift.”

Puzzled, Robert hefted the sack in his hand to judge its contents, and thrust his chin in query.

“Sulfur ash,” the healer explained. “I would treat it carefully.”

“Sulfur ash? The sorcerer’s ploy?”

A wry smile crimped the healer’s jowls, and he breathed a nasal sigh. “Have you not long since exhausted your supply of natural ploys?” he chided. “Is your Violette not worth a…supernatural weapon?”

“You test me!”

“I mock your righteous indignation, and your blindness. It is no wonder that you and Montaigne get on so famously. You are both hewn of the same immovable rock.” He threw up his hands. “I will speak plain. Lord knows that it will matter. A pinch or two of that cast down at the proper time and place might save your life, my fine-feathered skeptic. Not all weapons bear a cutting edge.”

R
obert did not ride boldly through the streets of Paris at
midnight. Familiar with the vendors’ quarter from his earlier search for Violette, he tethered his mount in a remembered grove nearby, and made his cautious way on foot.

All went as Doctor Nostradamus predicted, and he was admitted at number twelve, the house with the broken gargoyle that the healer had described, by a short, plump woman, who introduced herself only as Madeline. Well past middle age, she was possessed of a sparse crop of yellow-gray hair, and small eyes all but lost in the flab of her round face. This was not the house of Jacques and Justine Delon, where the girl had lodged. They, too, were in their later years, and in order that no suspicion should fall upon them if the plan should fail, Nostradamus had seen to it that they were spirited away from the quarter beforehand.

A cold, dreary rain had begun to fall, and Madeline offered the bedraggled laird a piece of fresh baked bread, a trencher of pottage, and a tankard of sack before the blazing kitchen hearth. He was famished, and he took the trencher with anxious hands, threw back the cowl, and began to wolf down the stew greedily.

At sight of his face, the woman gasped, making the sign of the cross over her tremendous bosom, and for the first time since he had set his helmet aside in exchange for the cowl, Robert remembered his disfigurement, marveling that something had actually made him forget the despair that had brought him to France in the first place and begun this madness. He couldn’t even pinpoint when it had ceased to be the
foremost thought in his mind, only that Nostradamus was right—Violette was at the root of it. It was a rude awakening, but Robert tried to concentrate on the day to come, and once he’d met briefly with several others who were privy to the clever healer’s plot, he succumbed to sleep beside that wonderful crackling hearth.

The full scope of the ruse was not apparent until the dismal dawn broke over the vendors’ quarter the next morning. The handful of wary, inept peasants he had envisioned was in fact a sturdy force nearly one hundred strong. Wearing humble mourning garments, they made a striking show indeed, down to a very authentic embalmer robed in the proper, somber countenance befitting the occasion. The coffin had been his contribution to the event, and as Robert let them shut him up inside it, he prayed that it was not an omen.

A cold autumn rain beat down on the procession that crawled slowly over the cobblestone streets of Paris. The rain drummed upon the coffin lid, so close above the Scot’s face in the darkness beneath. It resounded like thunder in the ears that strained to hear any sounds of danger. There were none, though that did not ease the tension that had drawn every sinew so taut he feared they would snap for the strain.

Not until they reached the Pont Neuf, a narrow bridge that spanned the Seine to the Île de la Cité and gave access to the towering cathedral, did they meet with opposition. There, a detachment of gendarmes patrolled the approach and called the procession to a halt.

Robert held his breath at the sound of heavy boots striking slick cobblestones, but over the din of the rain and the sobs and the shouted commands, the embalmer’s voice became clear.

“Would you disturb the dead?” he cried, for one of the soldiers had laid hold the coffin. Robert stiffened inside.
“Have you no respect, sir? You would risk a curse upon your house to view that mangled corpse in there?”

“Curse, eh?” the guard scoffed, drawing the coffin closer. “Get out of the way, undertaker.”

“If you are possessed of a strong stomach, sir, lift off the lid,” the embalmer said. Robert gripped his sword. “Our poor departed brother inside was trampled—crushed to death under the hooves of a crazed horse in the street!”

The gendarme, paying him no mind, still struggled with the lid, but Robert had secured the clever latch inside that had been placed there for just such an emergency.

“Here, let me help you if you must,” said the embalmer, “though I should warn you that he who lies inside took the faltering step that led to his demise while suffering from a fever of rather…doubtful origins.”

“Plague?”
the gendarme cried, leaping back from the cart.

“Who can say?” the embalmer replied. “There wasn’t enough left of the poor soul to be certain, God pity him,” he said, his own hands on the lid now. “But if you must have your duty done…”

“No! Hold there! Leave it. Be on your way—the lot of you!” he barked, instructing his men to give the procession a wide berth.

“As you wish, sir,” said the embalmer, straightening the coffin in the cart. Robert heaved a sigh of relief inside, as the sounds of horse’s hooves and sharp commands grew distant, and the congregation lumbered on.

He had begun to sweat profusely, and though there was a crevice here and there designed to let air in, he could scarcely breathe. His heart was racing, and by the time they’d crossed the little bridge and reached the cathedral, he was certain the thundering beat of it could be heard above the clatter of the rain. Another delay halted the procession, but it wasn’t as dramatic. Having been allowed to cross to the Île de la Cité, the sentries posted at the cathedral
assumed that the gendarmes on the other side of Pont Neuf had done their duty. After hearing the same deterring tale, they made no attempt to disturb the coffin, and the mourners were admitted without suspicion. They were not, however, allowed to congregate in the nave as planned. They were herded instead into the west side chapel, where several priests attended, and they bore the coffin along the buttressed wall and set it down at a discreet distance while the spokesman approached the clerics. This placed Robert advantageously close to an arch that partially obscured the coffin, and led to a narrow passageway beyond. It was at that moment, when the embalmer had captured the priests’ attention with the generous contribution, that a sharp rap on the coffin lid signaled Robert to make ready, as the vendors began their realistic charade.

Uttering a grief-stricken wail, the woman, Madeline, feigned a swoon and fell prostrate upon the coffin. The others rallied around then, and the melancholy hum of their grief echoed through the empty chapel. The wall of their animated bodies became a shield that hid Robert’s escape from the casket, and let him slither away along the marble floor and disappear into the darkened passageway that led toward access to the lower regions.

Fortune had smiled upon the hour of the escape, in that it came before the priests began the service. This would allow a little extra margin to Robert’s chances of finding Violette below, and getting her back to the vendors in time to be carried out as he was carried in.

But he still had to act quickly, and at sight of the maze of darkened turns and alcoves, his heart sank. He had never seen anything like it. Looking up, he was awed by the height of the intricate arches and domes and buttresses. How vast could the place be? But he moved boldly through the passageways, feeling confident in his monk’s attire, throwing open doors to storage chambers and cubicles along
the way. None were inhabited, and he dared not call out for fear of attracting the wrong sort of response. His heart had begun to pound again, and cold sweat ran down his pleated brow despite the drafty chill that clung to the damp, musty corridor. Aside from the putrid stench of mold that called to mind the Bastille, Notre Dame smelled of sickly sweet, stale incense and tallow, threatening to make him retch.

Precious minutes were slipping away. Robert couldn’t spare them, and he couldn’t stop them. What he needed was a signpost to guide him. Nostradamus was right. This was no mere closet. It was, in fact, so vast and intricate a labyrinth that he wondered that he would be able to find his way back to the chapel again.

Suddenly there was a sound, amplified by the acoustics, and he drew his sword and flattened himself in the shadows, listening. It came clearer—the hollow clop and shuffle of footfalls echoing along the passageway, and he held his breath awaiting the author of the noise. At last, the figure of a man bled through the darkness. He was garbed in the robes of a priest, and Robert lunged and hooked his arm around the man’s throat as he passed, pulling him close, the pressure of hard, corded muscle on the priest’s larynx stifling his cry.

“The blind girl,” he spat, close in the sputtering priest’s ear. “Take me to her.”

Whining and gasping, the priest struggled, but the tip of Robert’s sword indenting his side soon quieted him.

“One careless step—one outcry, and I will skewer you through,” the young laird promised. “Do we understand one another?”

The frantic priest’s bobbing head replied to that, and he nodded in the direction from which he had come.

Robert relaxed his grip just enough so that his captive could walk, wondering how he could have missed the chamber where they had her, but he didn’t release the priest, nor
did he remove the sword while he moved alongside down a narrow passageway off to the left, so obscured in shadow he’d passed it by earlier.

“You cannot escape, you know,” the priest choked, retracing his steps.

Robert jerked him closer in lieu of conversation, though the gesture spoke louder than any words he might have voiced.

“God have mercy upon you!” the holy man shrilled.

Robert tightened his grip, and jabbed deeper with the sword. “Sanctimonious toad,” he spat. “You had best beg God’s mercy for yourself, if so much as one hair of that lass’s head has been harmed.”

They descended toward the wine cellar. When they reached the great arched door that confined it, the terrified priest waved a trembling hand. Snatching the key chatelaine dangling from the chain that girded the man, Robert unlocked the cellar and propelled him inside. A quick glance was all it took to be certain that the priest had not deceived him. Violette lay bound among the casks. Delivering a swift blow to the priest’s head, he let the man drop and ran to her.

Hysterical, she made no coherent sounds while he unfastened the ropes that bound her hands.

“Violette, it is I,” he soothed, lifting her to her feet beside him. “I am going to get you out of here. You must be still now, and do exactly as I say.”

She searched his scarred face, her tiny fingers flitting over every contour, and she groaned, pulling him into her arms.

“Oh, my lord, it
is
you!” she sobbed. “Your uncle…is he safe?”

“Yes, but nevermind all that now. We must hurry, lass.”

“You should not have come. It is what they intended. They will kill you!”

A small flare set in its bracket on the wall had nearly
burned out. In the waning light he could see that her face was bruised, and that her wrists were raw from the bite of coarse, abrasive ropes. He drew her closer in his arms, finding her trembling mouth with his own.

She clung to him desperately, and he moaned, crushing her closer still, at the mercy of her passion. Nothing else existed then. His senses had exploded. The scent of her surrounded him and, for the moment, left him dazed. That soon passed, however, chased by a rush of adrenaline that called him back to the present. He held her at arm’s distance.

“There is no time to explain. You must trust and obey me now, or all of this is for naught.” Releasing her, he stalked to the unconscious priest, snatched a wine-stained serviette from a pile of soiled linen on the corner shelf, and jammed it into the cleric’s mouth.