Prisoner of the Flames (Leisure Historical Romance) (31 page)

The priest led him into the kitchen, where he prepared a sack of bread, cheese, apples, and a skin of wine. By the time he finished the chore and handed it over, Robert had unburdened himself.

“…They helped me escape, and I could do nothing to save them,” he concluded, moved by the telling of it, “but I can warn other clergy of what is to come. It is why I cannot linger. I may have stayed too long already. I mean to stop at every church and chapel I find on my way south to warn of the storm that is coming. What I need is good directions that I might keep ahead of these men in order to do it. The map seigneur de Montaigne made me memorize was designed to confuse them. It was elaborately contrived, but it would take too long to reach my destination as things are now. I am in need of a more direct route.”

“I shall draw you a map, young son,” said the priest, “that will see you south through the forests. You will pass many churches, where you may do penance for the souls lost in Rouen—” he crossed himself—“by way of warning the living of the fate of the martyred dead that rests so heavily upon your conscience. Behind the smokehouse, you will find a horse. Leave the mare, and take him instead. He is a swifter mount—the gift of one in my parish, but what need have I of a swift mount, eh? The mare will suit me better…until I find her owner, of course,” he hastened to add. He sighed. “These are indeed troubled times.”

“I shan’t forget your kindness,” Robert said. “Few here have shown me hospitality. I shall keep you in my prayers, Father…?”

“Pierre,” said the priest, “and I shall keep you in mine, my
son. Now let us get you on you way, eh? I will fetch tools to remove that collar, and then we make the map.”

It was fully dark by the time Robert helped the priest distribute the church vessels amongst the villagers for safekeeping. Persuading the obstinate cleric to abandon his church and find a safe place among them was another matter entirely, which he relegated to his congregation to sort out. He dared stay no longer.

By midnight, wrapped in a hooded cloak offered by one of the locals, he’d made good progress on the swifter gelding the priest had given him. He was exhausted, but he dared not slow his pace. Not yet, not until he’d put a little more distance between himself and the bloodthirsty mob he knew was nipping at his heels.

He rode through the night, and stopped before dawn to warn the clergy at two more churches along the route Father Pierre had mapped out for him. He plodded on until midday before he and the horse could go on no longer without rest. Finding no shelter, he walked the animal into the wood that hemmed the road he traveled to a little brook, where he tethered him to graze. Then, choosing a spot where he could watch the road unseen—where passersby would wake him—he succumbed to sleep at last.

The sun had nearly set when the thunder of horses’ hooves jolted him awake. He strained bleary eyes toward the road, and his scalp drew taut with gooseflesh when they focused. It wasn’t the Huguenot banner these riders carried. It was the standard of Charles de Guise. His heart leapt. The cardinal’s men traveling south at breakneck speed could only mean one thing. Assuming that Montaigne was still his sponsor, they, too, were set to lay siege to the magistrate’s vineyards. He was caught between two factions, and he had to reach Bordeaux before either of them.

Cursing under his breath that Dr. Nostradamus hadn’t
shared this augur, Robert bolted back through the trees to where he’d tethered the gelding, with intent to reach him before he answered the call of the other horses streaking by. He found the animal milling in place, his ears pricked up and cupped toward the strident sounds coming from the dusty road. Robert snatched the horse’s reins, and soothed him with gentle hands until the thunder became a distant rumble. After mounting, he plunged deeper into the forest and made straight for the coast.

He’d come nearly halfway. There could be no more stopping to rest. With both the Huguenots and the cardinal’s men seeking him, he dared not show himself, or risk being caught between them. There was nothing for it but to stay ahead of the one, while attempting to bypass the other, if he was to reach Montaigne before they did. That meant approaching Bordeaux by
sea.
It was his only hope, and he kept within the forest and followed the tributaries to the quay at La Rochelle, praying for a sturdy barge and fair winds to help him do it.

V
iolette reached Montaigne’s rambling château at Bordeaux
without incident, except, of course, for the time she tried to leave the coach in another attempt to return to Robert with or without the magistrate. Montaigne made her as comfortable as was possible on such a long, slow journey, but no manner of reassurance would still her fear that she would never see Robert again.

It was nearly time to harvest the grapes when they arrived. A fortnight and the harvest would be in full swing. The château was understaffed as it always was in the magistrate’s absence, and Montaigne left Violette in Brother Aengus’s keeping several days after they arrived, and went in search of pickers in the neighboring villages.

The day was fair, and mild enough to spend time on the terrace, which was where Montaigne settled them. There wouldn’t be too many more mornings such as this, however. The days were drawing in. It wouldn’t be long before the air turned crisp, and such outings would be abandoned until the spring. Today, birds twittered sweetly in the nearby branches, and the sun was warm on Violette’s face. The air was sweet with the heady scent of grapes ripening on the vine, and though Violette inhaled deeply, she let her breath out on a long, labored sigh.

“I like this not,” she said. “Robert should have come by now. It has been many days—too many, I’m thinking.”

“It is a long way from Rouen to Bordeaux,” said Aengus. “Who is to say how long the journey to Rouen took from the Huguenot village. There are storms this time of year.”

“I shall never see him again,” she despaired. “I
did
see him, you know…with my hands…with the eye in my mind that isn’t blind.” Somehow it was important that the monk know that.

“Poor child, how difficult it must be to have patience when you have no sight,” said Aengus. “I will not pretend that there is no danger. You would not believe me if I did, but I have known my nephew longer than you do. He has an iron will, and is tenacious, that one. If you could have seen his daring feats liberating me from that filthy jail—”

“And rescuing me from Notre Dame,” she interrupted. “But how long can favor smile upon him in his recklessness?”

“As long as needs must to see you both safely out of France, please God,” Aengus responded.

Violette said no more. She prayed, and sat beside the sickly monk while the sun rose steadily, until it beat down upon her head at midday, then slid lower and cooled as the golden gray she saw behind her sightless eyes turned darker and the warmth went with it on the brink of twilight. Aengus was just about to see her inside, when the sound of hoofbeats tearing up the lane turned them both around. Aengus gasped.

“What is it?” Violette cried.

“Someone comes,” the monk said, “…Montaigne, I think, coming on at a pace. He is not alone. There is another with him.”

Robert and Montaigne reined in their mounts at the château portal in a cloud of dust they’d raised from the parched roadway. Climbing down, he reached Violette in two strides, and gathered her close in his arms.

“Collect your things, both of you,” he said. “We must be away at once. I’ve brought the wrath of France down upon our heads.”

“What now?” asked Aengus, coming nearer.

“There’s no time to tell it,” Robert responded. “Thank God that I blundered into Michel trying to find my way here, or I never would have come in time. Bordeaux is no small city, and the cardinal’s men are at the gates. Fetch your belongings. We will ride to the quay and catch the evening tide.”

Still mounted, Montaigne glanced behind, his narrowed eyes straining the twilight down the lane, where another, greater cloud of dust was rising in the distance.

“They are not at the gates, they have passed through them,” he cried. “Quickly! There is no more time.” Cupping his hands around his mouth, he threw the château portal open, and called out:
“Gaspard…Peter…come!”

Seconds later, the steward and two house servants poured through the door, gaping at the gathering.

“Gaspard, bring oil, and torches—all we have, and tinder. Hurry!” he charged.

“What are you doing?” said Robert, still soothing Violette.

“I will see you safe and away,” said the magistrate.

“How?” Robert asked. “We will ride right into them.”

“Not so,” said Montaigne, pointing. “There is another way, beyond the vineyards through the forest. It is a longer route, I’ll own, but the path, though narrow, is well defined. Enter between those two tall pines. Farther in, there is a brook. Keep it within your hearing. It will lead you to the quay, and your escape through the inlet.”

“We will be seen. They are upon us!”

The servants ran out then, burdened with the oil and torches the magistrate had ordered, and he climbed down from his horse and crushed Robert’s hand around the reins.

“Take him,” he said, meanwhile helping the steward and the others light the pitch-soaked firebrands. “Two mounts will have to suffice. There is no time to fetch another.”

“But you can’t mean to—”

“There is no other way.” Montaigne cut in. He turned to
the servants. “Spread the oil, and fire the vineyards. Don’t just stand there gaping like simpletons!” He gestured toward the lane. “That is
death
beating a path to our door! Set the vines afire, and take care not to catch fire yourselves. There’s been no rain for weeks; they’ll go up in seconds, and so will you if you’re not careful. Here…give me one of those torches. I join you presently.”

“You cannot fire your vineyards,” Robert cried. “My conscience will not stand the loss.”

“And mine will not stand your death upon my doorstep after all I’ve done to prevent it. The grapes will grow again. Will you—any of you—if they cut you down—or I, if they find us in collaboration here?”

The servants had begun to set fire to the vineyards. Thick black smoke rose into the twilight, spreading the scent of dry tinder and cooking grapes. Flames shot up—walls of them—as first one row and then another shot fiery tongues spitting sparks high into the darkening sky.

“But what of you?” Robert persisted, despite his uncle’s hand tugging on his arm, and Violette’s urging that they do as the magistrate said. “This is madness! How can I leave you to face my folly here alone?”

“How can you not? If you stay, you bring us all low. Go now, while the fire makes a blind to shield your escape. When they arrive, they will not find you—or any trace of you. All in residence will disavow your presence here. What they will find is myself, and my house servants, desperately trying to put out the fire—so few to battle such a blaze, since I am just come home and we are short-staffed until the harvest. I will fare well, believe me. Go—
now
, while you still can. I feel the vibration of their mounts beneath my feet! I can smell their horseflesh over the stench of the blaze. Go, Robert. We are well met. Now, hail and farewell! Tis time we part.”

“These are not all that come,” said Robert. “The
Huguenots follow also, seeking Violette…and me. I could not do what they bade me. I could not kill the priests, though many died because of me. Coligny and his men were a day behind me when I took to the sea. It is too much for you alone!”

“You underestimate me,” said Montaigne. “Before I’m done, I’ll have them working side by side—Catholic and Huguenot alike—to put out this holocaust. Now
go!
I have not seen you—any of you. Your uncle and our Violette left for Scotland days ago. I will occupy them while you make your escape. Good-bye, my friend…”

His last words trailed off on the wind, for he had left them, and was running toward the south vineyard, which hadn’t yet caught fire, as he spoke it. Without a minute to spare, Robert mounted Montaigne’s horse and swung Violette up behind him, while Aengus climbed up on the mild-mannered gelding. Then, as Montaigne designed, using the flaming vineyards as blinds, they drove the animals beneath them toward the forest at full gallop.

Once inside the ancient weald, Robert cast a glance back toward the pandemonium they’d left behind. The cardinal’s men were swarming over Montaigne’s estate. Backlit by the wall of flames that had lit the night to day, he saw that they were many in number. From the way they were milling about, it was clear that what they found was not what they expected. The roar of the fire was deafening—even at their distance. Robert’s eyes smarted from the smoke, or were those tears he blinked back staring toward Montaigne’s sacrifice?

“Robert, we cannot linger here,” said Aengus, ranging his mount alongside. “None venture near, but that is not to say that one among them might just find this path, and us. These are a clever lot. We need to be away while the fire has their full attention.”

“I doubt they’d try to track us in the dark, even if they did know we were somewhere hereabout,” said Robert, turning
his mount. “They aren’t that clever, Uncle Aengus. I wanted to be sure Montaigne fares well amongst them.”

“He fares well enough, or they would be upon us.”

“But the loss…”

“God will reward him for his sacrifice, if not in this life, in the next. Now, come. There is nothing you can do here now save lay the plan Montaigne’s contrived to waste and us with it. The lass is exhausted. She’s had scant sleep since she arrived, and according to Montaigne, precious little on the journey here. We must rest soon, and we cannot do that until we leave this place well behind.”

There was no disputing that. One last look behind, and Robert led the way deep into the weald, following the narrow path that sidled like a lazy snake through the trees. How good it was to feel the pressure of Violette ‘s slender arms around his middle, her tiny hands fisted in his donated cloak. It was well past midnight when her grip relaxed, and her head leaned heavily upon his back. She’d begun to doze. Another minute and she would fall to the ground. He was certain of it.