Prisoner of the Flames (Leisure Historical Romance) (3 page)

“Hope is all I have, Uncle,” said Robert, “and this is my last. I am willing to vow that if this healer Nostradamus
cannot help me, I will concede defeat, accept my lot, and trouble no one further about it.”

“Then you had best have another tankard of wine, and pour one for me as well. Since you will not see reason, there are many things you should know before you set foot on French soil these days.”

Robert obliged him, and waited somewhat less than patiently while the old man took a deep swallow of the fragrant spiced wine and leaned close, crouching over the table before he went on, speaking hardly above a whisper.

“Your sojourn to that country is ill-timed,” he said. “To begin with, what is going on in France these days is no mere religious dispute, it is bloody civil war between the Catholic Royalists, and the French Protestants—the Huguenots.”

“They are Calvinists?”

“Yes, they follow the teachings of John Calvin, and they are many in number, much to the chagrin of the Crown, though that is the Queen Mother’s fault. Straddling that fence has cost her much, and will cost her more before ‘tis done. But I shan’t go into the whys and wherefores. I shall leave all that for seigneur de Montaigne.”

“Where does he stand in this civil war?” Robert wondered.

“He is exempt,” said his uncle. “He is a Jew, of Spanish-Portuguese extraction. At least that is his heritage. What his religious or political position is in these troubled times, who can say. He is, however, a very wise intellectual, one of the great thinkers of our time, and he remains neutral. Although he is a favorite of the queen, he relishes a certain amount of anonymity. You would do well to respect that.”

“The king is but a child, I’m told.”

“He is a lad of twelve, but make no mistake. Catherine de’ Medici, his mother, rules France, and will until she dies, no matter who sits on the throne. Even now, the factions sue for the king’s favor. He might make a good ruler if he lives to manhood. Those who manipulate him tug him in
many directions, and some whom he trusts should not be trusted. It is difficult for even an adult to brook and discern wisely, and the young king is swayed by his mother’s views, which fluctuate between the Catholics and the Protestants daily. She changes sides the way she changes partners at her precious court fetes, and if the boy is not soon counseled rightly, his rule will fail, and France will suffer greatly.”

“I doubt I shall have contact with any of these,” Robert said. “I want only an audience with Nostradamus. I don’t intend to get caught up in civil strife in a land not my own.”

“Nonetheless, it’s best that you are aware of these things. You will be far less likely to become embroiled in civil strife if you are armed with the means to avoid it. Bear with me, Robert. If you must go, go prepared for what awaits you, and my conscience will be clear in the matter.”

“Yes, Uncle,” Robert said humbly. There were times, like now, when the old man seemed more warrior than monk. It had to be the lusty Haddock blood. How it had turned out a holy man was a mystery.

“You would do well to heed Montaigne in all things,” Aengus went on. “While I can only warn you, he, being in the midst of it, will be able to counsel you far better than I. Things are changing hour by hour there now. What was true a sennight ago could be very different by the time you reach Paris. You know how long it takes for word to travel.”

“Who leads these Huguenots?”

“First, Louis I de Condé, in France and abroad, but it is Admiral Gaspard de Coligny and Henry of Navarre who lead the troops. Coligny vies to hold sway over the boy king, but Coligny’s archrival, who rules the Catholics, currently has the king’s ear, and he is by all accounts the greater danger. He is far more ruthless.”

“And, who is this…archrival?” Robert asked, avoiding his uncle’s scowl. He should have known the answer to that question without asking. Hadn’t Mary of Guise married
James V of Scotland, producing Mary Stuart? He muttered a low-voiced curse at his own stupidity.

“The Guises rule the Catholics,” Aengus mouthed, his words no more than a whisper. He leaned closer still. “Young son, if you heed nothing else I’ve said to you, heed this: do not cross swords with Charles de Guise, Cardinal of Lorraine. I run a great risk speaking against him even here—especially
here.
The very air we breathe has ears, and that man’s arm can reach beyond French borders. Avoid him at all costs, and if you do find yourself in his company keep your wits about you, and commit to
nothing
—not even an opinion on the weather. Do not let his youthful good looks fool you. The stairs he climbed gaining his place in the hierarchy were the bodies of the dead whose blood anoints him, and the bent backs of lowly monks such as myself, whom he has broken to his will.

“You have had dealings with this man,” said Robert.

“Dealings? Oh, yes, young son, I have had ‘dealings’ with Charles de Guise. I spent a good many years serving the Church in France, and I watched ambition spoil him, like the beetles spoil the plums out in our orchards, leaving the tender fruit to rot on the trees. I made the mistake of going against him whilst I was serving there under his jurisdiction. We were at loggerheads on canonical issues, and social reforms, as well, the very ones that have led to the unrest there now. He thinks he punished me in my assignment here—my banishment, as it were. Actually, I engineered it to get out from under his yoke.” He chuckled. “Don’t think to use me as a reference with that one, laddie. To this day I marvel at my prowess gaining freedom. My age, and his vainglorious complacency won it for me. If he had any inkling that I wanted out, I would still be there, I assure you.”

“If a prince of the Church is corrupt, who, then, can be trusted?”

“Save Montaigne, no one that I can recommend,” Aengus
said flatly. “He is no stranger to adversity himself. Most important, he is beyond reproach, and has thus far accumulated no important enemies, which is a miracle in itself. No, I’m afraid he is the only man in France right now that I can personally vouch for. Now! Do you still think you are equal to the task you have assigned yourself? Is seeking out this…ill-reputed heathen…this soothsayer worth your life? For you will lose it, helmed for what they will perceive as battle in that land now. All factions are certain to hold you suspect.”

“I have come this far, Uncle. I cannot turn back now.”

“So be it!” Aengus said almost in anger, giving a crisp nod. “I have done all I can to dissuade you. If, after all I’ve said, you are still determined, the consequences are upon your head, not mine. Now then, it is late, and I am weary. Let me hear your confession, and then sleep, while I draft your letter. On the morrow you receive the sacrament before you depart on your mad journey.”

“Thank you, Uncle Aengus.”

His uncle hesitated, and after a moment said, “There are some who say that your Nostradamus is in league with the devil, you know, Robert. He has uncanny sight, and is at best a mysterious fellow.”

“And, what say you, Uncle?”

“I say that the devil is in this somehow, and I fear that I am about to send you whoring after him.”

R
obert woke before the cock crowed, received the sacrament
, and ate a hearty breakfast before most of the monks arose. Those who worked in the kitchen provided him with barley bannocks, oatmeal porridge, which reminded him of the thick
crowdie
he ate at home, ale, and boiled eels—much more than the monks ate, which was usually only dinner at midday. Only in summer were bread and ale occasionally permitted at the breakfast hour if the monks were to labor in the heat, and sometimes a light supper was allowed. Fish and vegetables were the mainstay of their fare. Benedictines ate no meat. It was forbidden to all save the gravely sick.

Aengus fasted, though he sat with Robert while the younger man ate ravenously. Then after enduring one last vain attempt on his uncle’s part to dissuade him, Robert bid his uncle farewell, and left St. Michael’s Mount, his leather traveling pouch bulging with barley bannocks, a generous wedge of goat cheese, and a skin of the abbey’s own mead, flavored with honey and herbs, but not cut with water as the monks usually drank it.

It was barely first light when he took the ferry back to the mainland, where he booked passage on a merchant vessel bound for France. But traveling in autumn by way of the English Channel was treacherous and unpredictable, and the ship tossed for many days, blown off course at the mercy of wild maelstroms, howling winds, and torrents of horizontal rain before finding calmer waters in the
Baie de la Seine
, where the river met the channel, and the ship sailed southeast, along the Seine itself, to Paris.

Dawn was breaking over the city when he disembarked the vessel. The citizens of Paris were just beginning to mill about by the docks and in the square, and the vendors were setting up shop along the various routes that led into the city proper. It was a busier place than any of the markets he had experienced in the lowlands, and he soon found that he attracted far more attention than he had at home, where his affliction was well-known. In an effort to remain as inconspicuous as possible, he had opted not to go abroad in Scottish dress, and chose instead to travel in a padded, fitted doublet made of brown fustian, with darker brown sleeves, and hose of pease-porridge tawny, laced knee-high boots of soft leather with sturdy soles, and a short cloak with a stand-up collar to protect him from the weather. He kept his razor-sharp
sgian dubh
, the infamous black knife of the Scots, tucked out of sight inside his boot, carried a short English sword at his side, and had exchanged his ornamental sporran for a codpiece. His strategy had seemed sound, but he may as well have worn his comfortable tartan and strapped his Claymore on his back, for he hadn’t taken two strides upon French soil before he realized his tall, helmeted presence among the more slightly statured French was doomed to be at best a curiosity, and more than likely a great danger. Voices speaking in hushed whispers echoed all around him in a blood-chilling murmur of sound that did not bode well, and though his belly craved food, and his weary eyes drooped wanting sleep, he decided that it would be best to put all else aside and seek out seigneur de Montaigne.

He slipped the letter of introduction his uncle had given him from his pouch and examined the address. He was approaching a footbridge that spanned the river and descended to the edge of a road that wound eastward toward a modest collection of city dwellings, and westward away from the city. According to Aengus’s directions, Montaigne’s chalet lay to
the west, so he tucked the letter back inside his pouch and started across the bridge, when a disturbance on the other side caught his attention.

For a moment, he hesitated. The last thing he needed then was to make himself conspicuous by becoming involved in the affairs of the locals, but a young girl was being accosted at the foot of the bridge. Two rowdy drunkards, evidently still abroad after a night of revelry, were passing her back and forth between them like a ball, and her cries echoed over the water, amplified by the morning mist.

At first he took it to be a confrontation between two men and a girl of ill repute, but closer scrutiny revealed quite something else. The girl was a flower vendor, and the men had tipped over her cart. The damp cobblestone street was splotched with color where they had trampled most of her wares underfoot as they tossed her back and forth, groping her body familiarly. Glancing behind, he noticed two gendarmes at the foot of the bridge behind him, who saw the scuffle also, but they made no move to interfere, and without further hesitation, Robert vaulted over the bridge and put himself between the two bullies.

The drunkards looked bewildered, and the laird took advantage of their confusion. Shoving the girl out of the way, he launched a powerful right fist that sent one of the men over the upturned flower cart, where he landed sprawled on his back against the curb with the wind knocked out of him. Robert then took a quick step toward the other, who was very drunk, and had run at first, but who now started to reel back in his direction. Whether he meant to collect his friend or fight was unclear. Meanwhile, the man he’d hit scrambled to his feet, put himself between the two men, and turned his comrade around. The pair staggered off, and Robert turned his attention to the girl.

Whimpering, she knelt foraging for the coins that the men had spilled from her pocket in the tussle, and Robert squatted down and lent his hand to the search.

“Are you aright, lass?” he inquired. How lovely she was, with the sun gleaming in her long honey-colored hair, and exertion rouging her cheeks, her throat, and the creamy skin showing above the neck of her cinched-in blouse. She was a feast for his eyes, and he drank her beauty in greedily.

“My coins,” she despaired. “I had so few.”

“We shall find them, lass. See? Here are two more, and there is another by the cart behind you.”

She groped the cobblestones at her back without finding it.

“No, no—by the cart, lass…there, see? A half-pence.”

“I cannot see, monsieur, I am blind,” she sobbed.

Robert had wondered why she hadn’t seemed to notice his helmet. For a moment he stared at her. Then his posture sagged, and he ground out a bitter laugh as he picked up the coins in question.

“There is no harm in being blind, monsieur,” she said defensively.

“No, there is not, lass, forgive me,” he said.

“Were you with them, then?”

“Hardly,” said Robert, righting her cart. “In my country, men do not abuse young lasses—blind or otherwise.”

“You speak the language well enough for a foreigner,” she observed. “Where do you come from, then?”

“I am Robert Mack, of Paxton, Scotland, Laird of Berwickshire. I was tutored in French as a child, but not nearly well enough in manners. I beg you forgive my want of conduct. I have come in search of Michel Eyguem, seigneur de Montaigne, of this city. I have a letter of introduction from my uncle, a monk at the abbey on St. Michael’s Mount.”