Judith Merkle Riley (26 page)

“Beware the generosity of kings, Léon,” the old doctor had growled as he tucked away the money in his own worn leather purse. After that, the day hadn’t gone well at all, not at all, and now some lackey was banging on his door with a stick.

“Open, open,” called a woman’s voice. “I have important news for the great Master Nostredame.”

“Go ahead, Léon, I am destined to be martyred,” sighed Nostradamus. But when he saw the vast figure that filled his doorway, silver-headed walking stick still raised in mid-knock, he paled, then sighed deeply, and rose from his worktable. “Madame Tournet,” he said, “what brings you here?”

“News of the utmost importance to you. And, of course, I’ve come for my goddaughter’s horoscope. You promised to send it over three days ago. Surely, you haven’t forgotten.”

“It’s not done,” said the exasperated prophet.

“Not done, not
done
?” she said, advancing her formidable figure into the center of the carpet, from whence she could spy out the contents of the papers on the prophet’s worktable. Quickly, he moved himself in front of the table, but it was too late. “What’s that I see lying there? That one with all the ink blots? Sun in Aquarius; surely my goddaughter. We’ll take the draft.”

“You will
not
,” said Nostradamus, drawing himself up to his full height and giving her his most commanding stare. But women who have been married to pirates are not so easily put off.

“Of course we will; you have to be leaving immediately and won’t have time to make a fair copy—I’ll just have that now—” But Nostradamus grabbed the offending document from the table ahead of her questing hand, and he held it behind his back, where the rudeness required to seize it was greater even than Madame Tournet could muster.

“What’s this about leaving? I plan another three weeks at least,” said the prophet.

“If you stay the three weeks, you’ll be staying here forever.”

“And they accuse me of being cryptic. Speak up, Madame, or I shall never give you the horoscope.”

“I mean that you’ll be leaving your bones here. I have it on the best authority that the theologians of the Sorbonne and their friends from the Justice of Paris intend to investigate the source of your powers. And we both know they don’t use delicate means. Even if you are spared being burned alive, there won’t be a whole joint left in your body.”

“How do I know you aren’t just lying for some ulterior purpose? You’ve been consulting with that Lorenzo Ruggieri—that’s it—or Simeoni. How much did they pay you, what favors have they offered, to convince me to leave? You know it is only I who am great enough to devise the means of ridding your goddaughter of Menander the Deathless!”

“I’m telling the truth; I heard it from a parlementary counselor’s wife at a card party. They’re jealous of the favor the queen has shown you, and want to make an example. You must flee at once.”

“You’ve lied to me before,” said Nostradamus.

“Never,” said Madame Tournet. “I am the soul of truth.” But here Nostradamus played his
coup
de
Jarnac
, his brilliant fencing trick. It was also a stab in the dark, but a wisely chosen one. These things, after all, are known to happen in the best of families.

“You are a liar. You have already lied to your niece, and through her, to me. You lied about your goddaughter’s birthdate, and thereby sent me on a wild-goose chase that has wasted many candles. And now here you are, as bold as brass, demanding her horoscope and trying to get me to leave for some devious purpose of your own.” The prophet braced himself for a storm of furious denials, but instead, to his surprise, the vast, pallid figure of Madame Tournet seemed to wobble and shrink inside her immense, padded-out skirts. Her face became even whiter than her white lace ruff, so that the little black mustache stood out in even bolder relief. Her dark eyes started to swim with liquid, and blindly she sought out the chair, plopping down into it with the sighing, hissing sound of an inflated pig’s bladder that has been suddenly pierced by playing children.

“I swore before the altar of God that I would never tell. There are only three people on this earth that know the secret. You are the fourth. Swear to me, swear, you will never tell her. It would break her heart.”

“The other two?”

“Will take the secret to the grave.”

“Then one of them must be the priest who baptized her.”

“You see too much, Master Prophet.”

“And the other?”

“My best friend on earth—but no more, no more—I must not think of it or I will die of it.”

“But, there is one more thing. I must have the true date—”

“I can’t—”

“It is either that, or Menander the Deathless will at some point finally win his battle of nerves; then she is lost, and you, more than any one, can understand that.”

“I—I—well, then, I must—” The prophet waited for the war inside the old lady to subside.

“I can send word as soon as the work is complete,” he said, his tone gently encouraging. “And if you need to hide it from her, I’ll just send it direct to you when it’s finished. I do most of my business by correspondence, anyway.”

“Come close, and I’ll whisper,” said Madame Tournet, and wiping her eyes and a large swath of damp rice powder from her face, she looked about to see that no other human was nearby.

“Ah, I see,” said Nostradamus very softly, still leaning over her immense figure to catch her low-voiced answer. “That changes everything.”

In hope of catching the king alone, the Cardinal of Lorraine had remained in the council chamber until the last of the supporters of Montmorency had departed. It had been a hard winter, following on famine, and it promised to be a hard spring. Outside the narrow, diamond-paned windows of the Louvre, an unseasonable late spring sleet slashed at the towers, the streets, and the few hurrying passersby. The Old Constable was at the northern front, and the king felt nervous and unsure without his stabilizing presence. Lorraine’s older brother, the Duc de Guise, was triumphing on the southern front, his Italian victories bringing glory, but his absence removing him from the center of power. It was time for Lorraine to act, in the interests of the House of Guise.

“Your Majesty,” he said, just as the king was anticipating a rapid exit. “Your Majesty, I have news from Rome that will cause your rejoicing.” Henri II turned a calm, grave face to his counselor, but an errant muscle in his right hand quivered. He had noticed a distinct thickening of his waist lately, and craved the indoor tennis court. He nodded silently, as if interested, then stroked his narrow black beard. It was his favorite gesture, and gave him an undeserved reputation for deep thinking. “Your Majesty,” Lorraine continued, “our petitions have at least been answered. The Pope has ordered that the Holy Office begin the cleansing of our realm of the new heresy.” A chill, errant draft caught the tapestries of the council room and set them in motion. A mouse skittered from beneath the arras and under the heavy wooden council table.

“Ah,” said the king, nodding again as he moved toward the door, “and who has been appointed Grand Inquisitor?”

“Myself,” said Lorraine, following him into the corridor as he edged ahead of the king’s tennis companions. “But regretfully, the Pope could not avoid the appointment of the two other cardinals, Chatillon and Bourbon. A matter of precedent, you understand, no matter how regrettable.”

“What is regrettable about having three mighty lords to accomplish a task so great?” asked the king.

“I have reason to suspect, Majesty, that Chatillon—Chatillon is one of
them
.” Chatillon. A Montmorency. How delicately the treacherous Guise Cardinal cast suspicion on his rivals—suspicion of heresy, suspicion of treason. A knowing glance, a hint of evidence, and a whisper too soft to echo in the stone staircase. The king paused in his rapid descent and looked back up over his shoulder at the Cardinal of Lorraine.

“Oh? Has he letters from Geneva, then?”

“Nothing so direct. He gives them sympathy. He tolerates them more than he should. By these signs, I know what he conceals from you, and from the Holy Father. In his heart, heresy has found a foothold.” They had entered a lower passage; a page carrying a huge ewer of water paused to stare. From inside the court at the end of the passage came the inviting sound of a man’s shout, a patter of applause, and the thunk of a struck ball.

“But even were he to doff his silk and address a
preche
at their Temple, which I do doubt exceedingly, you would have Bourbon to side with you in this inquisition. Bourbon, I know, is a good Catholic.” They had reached the open door of the tennis court. The rope was up, curious faces were peeping from the upstairs galleries. The court smelled of sweat, of urine, of old leather. Lorraine spoke faster, trying to keep the king’s fast-waning attention.

“That is true, Majesty, and your discernment of his sympathy is perfect. But have you not noticed a certain laziness about him, a certain fondness for soft living and amusements that might sap his energy in pursuit of these treacherous heretics? His good temper, his love of novelty—they lead him to tolerate much. Why, only last fall, he had as a houseguest that charlatan, Nostradamus. I hear he had him at his table almost every evening, and reveled greatly in the company of all the ladies of rank who came to have their fortunes told.” At the mention of fortune-telling, the king turned toward Lorraine, his voice irritated, his attention fully caught, at last.

“Superstition, my dear Cardinal. I despise it, but it is everywhere. Fortunately, it is not the same as heresy. The queen my wife, you know, is utterly taken up with the most preposterous superstitions—and yet you will find no more faithful Catholic on this earth. Masses, prayers—she can’t get enough of them. It’s in the blood. No balance. Italian, and the niece of a Pope. No, superstition is not enough to suspect a man—” The king paused, the expression on his long, morose face unfathomable.

“Your reading of his character is brilliant, Majesty. But sometimes—sometimes I have concern that, good Catholic that he is, he might favor his family excessively. His brother—” A spark of irritation lit the king’s eyes.

“The King of Navarre? He changes his mind with every passing wind. I never concern myself with the King of Navarre. He rants and raves and schemes uselessly to regain the Spanish half of his kingdom, and will never care for anything else. He is here, he is there, a useless fellow. He may be a Prince of the Blood, but I am glad that three throne heirs separate him from power in this realm. He would sell away France in a moment, out of pure forgetfulness, or because someone temporarily amusing told him it was a good idea. No, he has not the force of will to be a dangerous heretic.”

“Yes, but his wife does, and is. Her court is a haven for them.”

“A woman? Hardly worth considering. And remember, you are speaking of my own cousin, the daughter of my aunt Marguerite, the beloved sister of my father, King Francis.” The king looked away impatiently; this time Lorraine had gone too far.

“Oh, consider it not said, Majesty. Doubtless, she has fallen under the spell of Navarre’s younger brother, Condé—he is one of them, too, I am sure.”

“Really? I have not heard of that. Very well, I suppose I must have him watched more closely. But as for the Queen of Navarre, I want her left alone. Royal blood—greater than yours, Lorraine—if she wishes to be eccentric, that is her own matter.” The king had edged through the low, arched door of the tennis court, as Lorraine followed him close at his left elbow.

“And the orders for the required death penalty for all Protestants?” The king unfastened his gown and handed it to a waiting page. Stripped to his doublet, he acknowledged the joyful shouts of his tennis partners and gestured for a racket.

“Of course, of course—just follow the existing law—they are, after all, the worst of heretics—but leave the German mercenaries alone—their Princes, you know, so fussy—some things, you understand, must be overlooked temporarily.” The king waved his hand as if it would all be taken care of by some invisible force located slightly above his left elbow and abandoned the Cardinal, there on the edge of the court, as he took his place to the sound of scattered cheers from the gallery above.

The seeds are planted, thought Lorraine, as he paced alone through the damp, stinking stone corridors to leave by the courtyard entrance. I have made the Bourbons suspect, as well as the Montmorencys. If only a kind God would allow the Old Constable to be slain in battle—why then, a snake without a head is a dead thing, and so will be the influence of the whole Montmorency tribe. That clan is riddled with too much independence of thought. Heresy is the next step. They may be heroes now, but with little effort, I can reveal them as traitors to the faith tomorrow. The Inquisition will gain strength, and with it the Guises, the only true, unquestionable Catholics. And I, I shall control the Inquisition. Time, time—it is only a little time, and the Guises will reign over three kingdoms.

***

It was a beautiful spring day, two months after Lorraine’s sinister conversation with the king. Birds sang in the trees, playing children called from the alleys, and housewives leaned out of their upstairs windows to shout gossip over the laundry. But above all these sounds of spring, the comfortable house on the rue de Bailleul was resonating from cellar to roof beam with the loud, aggrieved cries of Scipion Montvert, banker, substantial citizen, and paterfamilias. All the servants, even the little boy who sharpened the knives in the kitchen, were tiptoeing and shushing one another, pretending that they didn’t hear the bellowing outside the closed door of the son and heir of the House of Montvert.

“How DARE you bar your door to ME, your own FATHER? Open, I say, or I’ll sign the papers to have you consigned to the Bastille as a wayward son! THAT’S better! When I say open, you open—” The listeners heard a sort of indistinguishable grunt as a response. The lady of the House of Montvert placed her hand over her heart, leaning for support on the pallid, dark-haired daughter of the house, whose eyes were rolled upward in prayer.

“Have you not a thought, young man, for your life which is flowing away? When I was your age, I was up at DAWN, working at mastering my TRADE! Languages, law, finance! And here I’ve sent you to the finest universities: Bologna, Montpellier, Toulouse, and you’ve been thrown out of every one of them! And now you go out all night and sleep all day!”

Mumble, mumble, mumble.

“Don’t make excuses! You’ve sampled every den of sin in six nations! And with whom do you associate? People of substance, who can help you? Or lowlife tavern-keeper’s sons, fencing school rowdies, impoverished scandal-mongering writers and gallows-bait fiddlers, no, THOSE are the people to whom my son is drawn, like some perverse lodestone!”

Mumble, mumble, grump, mumble.

“Mother,” whispered Clarette, sensing a break in the invective, “may I take Bernardo to accompany me to mass?” Nicolas’s virtuous younger sister had a prayer book in her lily-like hands, and was wearing a large cross upon her bosom.

“WASTREL!” came the shout from upstairs. Nicolas’s mother shuddered at the sound.

“You know your father has asked Bernardo to follow your brother everywhere, to keep him out of taverns, quarrels, and public stews. And don’t you hear? He’s almost up.”

“Oh, Mother, you know it is Nicolas who should accompany me, and not a servant. If only once he would set foot in church—It is my dream that someday I will be the means by which he can enter into the presence of God’s love.”

“Oh, my darling, virtuous girl. Why did God give so much goodness to you, and no portion at all to your brother? I swear, he will be the death of me yet.”

“If only—” And here she sighed, rolling her eyes upward. “If only you could convince Father to let me enter the convent.”

“You know it is not your father’s wish. Who, who would remain of the Montverts if your brother—ah, God, how I suffer over him—”

“At your age I was a sober young man of BUSINESS! I was married to your mother! I had a FUTURE! What is there for you but a career as a mercenary or hired bravo or professional gambler? Eh? Answer me that!”

“Very well, Father, I’ll turn over a new leaf—” At this, all motion in the house below stopped. The two women, mother and daughter, strained to hear—but discreetly, as if they were in deep contemplation. “Yes—this very day. Give me permission to marry, and I’ll establish myself in some worthy profession—law—just as you’ve always wanted.” Clarette and her mother gasped.

“Not so fast, you weasel. You’ve failed to finish your legal studies in three universities, at my last count. Who’s to say you won’t enter school and do it all over again? No more, I say. An honest apprenticeship—say, in your mother’s cousin’s banking house in Genoa, and I’ll arrange a marriage with a sober, pure young woman of substantial family—”

“Actually, Father, there’s already a demoiselle—”

“A WHAT? You DARE to practice this sort of trickery on me?” Clarette and her mother crept quietly up the stairs, their eyes large.

“She’s beautiful, of high birth, she worships me, and I—I am so in love with her that I’d do anything—even be a banker—for your blessing, Father.”

“You have been PAYING COURT to a WOMAN without my PERMISSION? I WARNED you not to do that EVER again!”

“You
said
I should make the acquaintance of people of good blood and high connections—”

“MEN, not WOMEN, you ninny!”

“She’s from an excellent family—nobility of the sword—very old—the Artauds of La Roque-aux-Bois, and has the most important connections at court—with the queen, herself—”

“You, you, you—WHAT? A COURTESAN? I know all about that woman! Knowing what you are—a fool—I made inquiries when you first laid eyes on that hussy, and I learned more than I ever wanted to know about that dreadful woman! Sibille Artaud de La Roque, whose cousin Matheline is a wanton from birth, and has caused her good husband infinite suffering! The only one worse is her
cousin
, who abandoned her decent family, took up with her wicked aunt to gain an inheritance that belonged by right to her father, and now has mysterious connections at court! Sinful connections, without a doubt!”

Nicolas’s mother and sister were almost at the head of the stairs now, just out of sight of the quarrelers in the doorway. They paused, more silent than silence itself, and in that silence, you could almost hear their ears growing longer.

“My son, my son, have you lost the last of what little sense you ever had? Don’t you know why a woman of that sort would be interested in you? A woman who waits on the queen? Who shows herself in public, reads at literary gatherings, and, what’s worse, has books
printed
in
her
own
name
? She wants a husband of a rank that she can command—a cover for her sins, for her affairs, which I have no doubt are already as numerous as the stars in the sky. That’s how those women live, those women with high court connections. Don’t you understand? They’re not like us—”

“Father, it’s you who doesn’t understand. Her conversation is elevated, her associations virtuous—” A look of sudden, furious realization crossed his father’s face.

“You’ve been
calling
on her—don’t deny it, I can tell by your face—calling in secret, without my permission! How long, for God’s sake? Have you promised her anything? Is she pregnant?”

“Father, she is pure, she is constant—no woman you found could be finer, more devoted—we could be happy together—”