Judith Merkle Riley (25 page)

“You know I can’t sleep in this awful bed. The pillow—it’s stuffed with very cheap feathers, not good goose down like my own. It gives me bad dreams. All night, I see riots, death, and the war of brother against brother. I could hardly wish for worse nightmares. If I weren’t waiting for the queen’s payment, I’d have left yesterday—no, before yesterday. I didn’t like the quails at the table yesterday. Tough, bony little things, and the sauce tasted tainted. I’ve been bilious ever since. And these northern cooks just don’t understand the value of garlic.”

“Just because they don’t chew it raw, like the Béarnais—” But the great Nostradamus had fallen asleep over his papers. Anael leaned over his unconscious form and blew out the guttering candle.

***

“—so you see,” Auntie was saying, “although we possess several items from his treasure, the original Señor Alonzo, being an old enemy of my husband’s, is at the bottom of the ocean, but Monsieur Tournet bestowed his name on my darling little creature, here, who was for many years a poor old widow’s only consolation, especially since she had such an arrogant and ungrateful brother. Here, sweetie,” she clucked, as she offered the monkey another piece of candied orange peel. “Just look at his dear little hands, such tiny fingers!” Señor Alonzo scrambled up the curtains to perch on the rod and make one of his horrible grimaces at my brave, heroic rescuer, who was blushing with becoming modesty and trying to excuse himself as he edged toward the door.

“A monkey,” he was mumbling, “a monkey—and you’re her godmother—I—I have to leave—business—”

“And just what business is that, Monsieur Montvert?”

“Ah, um, I have to join my father at four o’clock sharp at the Louvre—an appointment—very important—”

“Why, it’s nowhere
near
four o’clock; it isn’t even noon yet, and I’m sure you haven’t eaten.” It is a good thing Auntie had words enough for two, because after all the turmoil, I couldn’t manage to say a thing. My words had just dried up in favor of my sight, blessed sight that he had saved, so that I could the better behold him. And I just couldn’t see enough of
him
. Why had I never noticed before the charming way he left his shirt unfastened beneath his doublet, the lace trailing carelessly at his neck? Why hadn’t I appreciated his simplicity in shunning a tight, formal ruff, and carefully oiled and combed hair? How could I have failed to notice his arm and delightful brown eyes, at this moment filled with some unspeakable emotion, or his long, aristocratic hands—surely from some elegant descent on the non-Montvert side? Yes, simplicity, insouciance of dress—how they become a truly handsome man, one of noble spirit, such as my rescuer.

“But—um—I have to change—my clothes, ah, yes—change clothes—” He looked uncomfortably about him. His eye seemed to fix on one of Auntie’s more lurid tapestries, the
Judgment
of
Paris
, with three naked goddesses.

“Oh, your poor sleeve—just
look
at those terrible holes! Vitriol is wicked, wicked stuff—I’ll have my tailor take your measure and send you an entirely new doublet and shirt, as a token of my gratitude—are you sure you can’t stay to dinner?” Auntie didn’t seem to notice anything amiss at all—with him, with me. How could she not hear the loud thump-thump of my heart in the embarrassed silences of our conversation?

“Do stay,” I managed to choke out. How delightfully rakish his hat looked, perched over one eye like that. What a delicious angle his jaw made as it rose to meet the cheekbone—was that a beautiful blue vein I saw throbbing at his temple?

“You—you’d have me, even after—after—Señor Alonzo—I made—such a misjudgment about your reputation?”

“After what? After you saved me. Saved me from the terrible vengeance of Villasse—”

“Villasse,” he said, losing his crimson color and straightening up. “I will find him and kill him for this. I will call him out, and destroy him on the field of honor.” A beautiful lightning glance, like a bold eagle, lit up his face.

“I beg you, Monsieur Montvert, leave him to the king’s justice. His creature will confess everything and you will not have to sully your blade,” said Auntie.

“That’s the coward’s way,” he mumbled.

“Monsieur Montvert—in how many affairs of honor have you participated?” asked Auntie.

“Well—um—none—well, not the formal sort—ah, as yet,” he answered. “But–but I know a great deal—I’ve traveled—the new Italian
bottes
—”

“I have known Villasse for half a lifetime—he’s old, but malicious. In his youth, he survived a number of duels, mostly by trickery. Do you know once he secretly oiled a spot on a dueling ground, and drove an opponent across it? No one ever placed the blame on him. He’s as sly as a serpent, that one, and if you’re the one who calls him out, he will demand the choice of weapons—”

“Still, I can’t in all conscience—”

“But of course, we can discuss it over the meal. You must be terribly hungry, after all you have done for us, quite without a thought for yourself. Such gallantry! Surely you would not deprive us of your company—”

“If the demoiselle w-wishes—”

“Sibille,” I managed to say. “You must call me Sibille—”

“If Sibille wishes—” Silently, I nodded.

“Well then, take my darling’s arm, and escort her in, will you? I do believe the hour has come.” All I remember is that I nearly fainted at his touch, and for the life of me, cannot recall a word of the conversation or any of the dishes.

***

“Are you certain this is respectable?” asked the Duchess of Valentinois. She was standing before the fireplace in a handsome antechamber in her lovely, white towered palace at Chenonceaux, the gift of her doting lover, the king, the envy of all who saw it, especially the queen. The marble mantelpiece was ornamented with carved and painted HD’s entwined, for Henry and Diane, the walls were hung with exquisite tapestry, and on a squat, ornate table, rested a silver box, engraved with strange antique symbols and a rooster-headed god in a flying chariot. Outside, the cool, green waters of the Cher rippled beneath the piers of the great gallery, the sky was that divine, chilly blue that can only occur on the most perfect days in autumn, and the leaves of the forest beyond were just beginning to lose their summer green. In the distance, the calling of hunting horns echoed through the woods as her party of guests rode ever farther from the chateau.

“I assure you,” said Simeoni, a tall, gaunt magician in a shabby black robe, “this Menander was of noble descent, although of his own people. A kingly descent.”

“Oh, then I’m certain it must be correct. So many of these relics are of nobodies—hanged criminals, dreadful little shopkeepers, beggars of some sort or another. I don’t wish to be revealing my secret desires to some—ugh,
peasant
, you understand.”

“Oh, lady, I would never even dream of suggesting such a thing to one of your illustrious ancestry and refinement of taste.”

“Well then, Master Simeoni, let us proceed. Do I open it up, or does the repetition of the magic words cause it to open by itself?”

“I will open it, but you must promise not to be shocked.” The duchess nodded her assent, then drew back when she saw the wrinkled, mummified head in the box.

“Oh, it’s all dried up! How dreadful!” she cried.

“No more mummified than yourself,” said Menander, opening one of his leathery lids and rolling a hideous, living eye at her.

“Really, Lord Menander, for decency, perhaps a bit of cucumber cream for those dreadful cheek creases,” said the duchess, her tight little mouth prim. “I am shocked that a person of your standing would let himself go like this.” With a white, manicured finger, she pressed a stray wrinkle from her lushly embroidered oversleeve.

“Get on with it, you silly woman,” said Menander. “I suppose you want eternal youth.”

“Certainly not from
you
,” replied Diane de Poitiers. “Since you hardly have attained a desirable state of preservation of your own complexion. You really should try a bit of my rose oil on those crow’s-feet. You’ve let them get
entirely
out of hand.”

“Simeoni, I will revenge myself upon you for this,” said Menander in a low growl.

“I beg you, Madame, make some allowance for Lord Menander—he is, after all, nearly two thousand years old.”

“That really is no excuse for such—ugh—poor personal maintenance,” said the king’s mistress, “but still—I suppose—well, he is not French, after all, and therefore can’t really understand refinement—yes, I can understand—”

“—and you must consider the company he has been in lately,” said Simeoni, thinking desperately of ways to salvage his fee.

“Well, then, it is entirely understandable. That dreadful little queen from the foreign pawnbroking family—nouveaux riches like those awful Gondis, that dismal poetess—you are entirely forgiven, Lord Menander, since you have suffered.”

“I should hope so,” said the mummified head in the box, with an irritated sniff.

“Very well then. Simeoni, you tell him what I want.”

“Madame, I cannot do that. You have to recite the magic words yourself, and then speak the wish directly to Prince Menander.”

“If I must. Let me see—they’re written here. ‘By Agaba, Orthnet, Baal, Agares, Marbas, I adjure thee, Almoazin, Membrots, Sulphae, Salamandrae, open the dark door and heed me.’”

“Speak your desire,” said the hideous head, in a voice that whispered like the dust in old tombs.

“I, Diane de Poitiers, Duchess of Valentinois, command and desire you, Lord Menander, to prevent the queen from ever gaining influence over King Henri II of France, no matter what kind of magic she uses.”

“It is done,” said the head of Menander the Deathless. “Time will show you the truth.” His living eyes glittered evilly, and for effect, he caused a dark cloud to fill the room, and a smallish bolt of lightning to surge through it with a
crash
. Simeoni fell to the expensive carpet, groveling in fear, but the Duchess of Valentinois tapped her narrow, musk-anointed, silk-shod foot and said:

“Really, how common. My rose oil, Menander, and avoid vulgar effects. It will bring you a better clientele.”

“Who do you think you are, talking to me like that? I’m not your
hairdresse
r
!” shouted Menander, as he snapped his box shut and faded from the table, leaving a singed place on the varnish just out of spite.

I had best leave the country for a while, thought Simeoni as he tucked the Duchess’s fee into the old leather purse at his waist. He had heard about the queen’s wishes on the magician’s grapevine, and although he could hardly predict that Sunday would come next week, he had suddenly had a great surge of understanding come upon him, and in that awful moment, had figured out how Menander the Deathless could make both the duchess’s and the queen’s wishes come true at the same time with a single dreadful event. If I’m gone, he thought to himself, they’ll blame someone else. No use ending up like Guaricus, now. Sea air, and maybe that post with the Duke of Urbino. They’ll do old Simeoni good for the next year or two. These French just don’t appreciate a first-class astrologer, anyway. The following week saw him already beyond Orléans, traveling the dusty road to Toulouse and points south, mounted on a heavy-laden old yellow nag and trailed by his servant boy on a donkey.

***

“Let’s see,” said Auntie, examining the spread of the
tarocchi
that she had laid out. “The lovers, the sun, all excellent—except for this one here, crossed by the Queen of Swords—I just don’t like her in this position. But there’s really no question. Nicolas is the one for you, Sibille. It’s perfect.”

“The cards approve, and I approve, too,” said the Abbé. “He plays an excellent game of checkers. Passion never lasts, but you can play checkers forever. Wily, that boy. Did you see what he did to my king last Thursday? Now hurry up and finish that game, Sibille, I want to regain my honor.”

“Can’t,” I said. “Nicolas has me in a corner, here, and I must fight my way out. Besides, it’s not nice to talk about people behind their backs.” We were hunched over the checkerboard, and it was the end game, all kings on both sides, and neither of us was giving any quarter. Time had been going by in an enchanted haze, since Auntie had given him permission to call every day. We read poems, he played his mandura, and we sang duets and warred at checkers, where we were merciless with each other. When we were close, our hearts beat in the same rhythm, and when we were not together, we felt as if we were missing half of ourselves. “Aha! A jump! Too bad, Nicolas!”

“You’ve fallen into my trap! Jump, jump! Good-bye two kings!”

“But now—just look—” The Abbé wandered over to inspect the board.

“Well, well, both of you are stuck now. I call it a draw. Yes, it’s a draw, definitely. That’s the problem with you two. Too evenly matched.”

“And well matched, too. Nicolas, I have a plan to arrange for a go-between to speak to your father. I’m sure I can make the terms attractive for him. All this nonsense about sending for some foreign bride—it just won’t do. You must explain to him that my darling is a woman of virtue, that you are properly chaperoned, that there is a handsome dowry. Surely, he will relent when he realizes your happiness is at stake.”

But Nicolas looked devastated. “Oh, Madame Tournet. Every time I even hint about a French bride, he says Frenchwomen are shameless flirts, that a French wife will only make a fool of me and give me a set of horns, and that he knows best. Then he shouts about the Bastille, or sending me off to my cousins in Genoa—what shall I do? You know there will never be any bride for me but Sibille. I’d rather die than live life without her.”

“Hmm,” said Auntie. “This is a problem. If you elope, your father will never forgive you. He has the right to lock you up, have the marriage annulled—all that and even more. And I want my Sibille to be honored in your family. We must win your father over somehow. I’ll just have to think of something. Don’t worry, I always have.”

***

“Cease that vulgar banging! Didn’t they tell you I’m not seeing anyone today? I have a headache!” shouted Nostradamus at the sealed doors. All day long, servants had tiptoed around the long way rather than cut through Nostradamus’s room, ever since he had thrown his inkwell at the Cardinal’s own barber and gotten away with it. Nostradamus didn’t consider it his own fault at all, not in the least. He was plagued by devils, not the least of them the elusive Anael, who hadn’t showed him a single vision in days. Then there were the despicable Ruggiero brothers who had raised a phantom in phosphorescent armor to predict the greatness of that runny-nosed boy, the dauphin, when he had become lord of three realms, which had sent the queen fluttering after them like an adoring schoolgirl. And finally there was Menander’s vulgar taunt and that spotty piece of paper on which was depicted the only horoscope he had ever drawn up that wouldn’t come out. Then just when he had retained equilibrium of mind through a really excellent Ragoût and a pleasant old Bordeaux, a lackey in the king’s livery had delivered two purses, and Nostradamus counted them out to find that the king had sent him a velvet purse with a hundred crowns for his services, and the queen had added thirty more. Barely enough to cover the cost of his travel.