Judith Merkle Riley (15 page)

***

“Maistre Nostredame,” said the Grand Constable of France, condescending to lean down slightly from his big horse to speak to the old man on the pacing mare who rode beside him, “the queen is much taken by your
Centuries
. Tell me, why do you write them in such cryptic language? There are many arguments about their meaning.”

“You mean to say, my lord Constable, that they think I conceal my ignorance and chicanery behind difficult language. Let them continue to think that. The visions that have been granted to me are not for the ignorant to know. Unintelligent people make bad use of everything, including knowledge of the future.”

As they clattered over the bridge past the moated city wall and into countryside beyond, the Constable replied, “Why, of course, of course—I myself believe in your gift. Yes, absolutely. But why set them out in such disorder? I have such difficulties. If I could but divine the date—” A flock of squawking chickens scattered from in front of the horses. In the distance, windmills turned slowly in the warm breeze.

Nostradamus shifted in the saddle, trying to find a more comfortable arrangement for his complaining spine, and said in an irritated, cryptic fashion, “It is as the Spirit dictates. I have nothing to do with that.” Or with his terrible housekeeping, he added in his mind. My fate to become connected with a spirit who keeps everything in a jumble. Noting the Constable’s superstitious shudder, he hastened to add, “The stars shape fate, but they do not control it. Were I to set out the visions in plain language, by date, no one would struggle to change anything, and mankind would be weighed under an iron yoke more terrible than the rule of the Antichrist. It is God’s will that those who are capable of understanding make choices that will escape the chains of history in order to demonstrate His grace.” There, that ought to settle you, thought Nostradamus, sensing a demand for a free personal reading in the offing.

“Understanding, yes, I see it all,” said the Old Constable, and fell silent, wanting to number himself among the elect, and not among the unintelligent who demanded everything be spelled out because they were incapable of mastering their fate. Nostradamus rode on in silence, well content. He had not eluded the Inquisition all these years through good fortune alone, and he was always pleased when one of his stock of philosophic arguments produced exactly the response it was supposed to. The Old Constable would carry it through the court and it would simplify the prophet’s life considerably.

By the time they had reached the staircase of the
cour d’honneur
of St.-Germain-en-Laye, the old doctor was grateful for the Constable’s armed guard. He was surrounded by a swelling, noisy crowd as he progressed toward the queen’s reception chamber. “Nostredame, Nostredame!” they cried, jostling up against him and risking his balance and his gout. “He’s here! The diviner! The prophet! The queen herself has sent for him.” Women tried to touch him and strangers pulled at his clothes. Desperate folk shouted questions about lost lovers or absent sons, wags banged against his walking stick and pelted him with joke questions about their mistresses and hunting dogs. Soldiers, pages, servants, aristocratic loungers all squashed together, filling the corridors, to get a glimpse of him.

“Away, all of you!” shouted the Grand Constable. “Make way for the queen’s astrologer!” At the back of the crowd, a dark, bearded Italian-looking fellow, clad entirely in black leather, scowled and muttered. Why does everybody make a fuss over someone just because he’s published a book? thought Cosmo Ruggieri. It’s common, some sort of gutter impulse to seek out the praise of nobodies. My thoughts are much too subtle to commit to something as vulgar as print. You have to be a person of discernment to understand my wisdom. You’d think that wretched woman would appreciate my long service, my brilliance. That Nostradamus just drools to get the worship of the mindless masses. Look at those idiots trying to get his attention! There’s no
substance
to the man. He’s a deceiver, and no one but me can see through him. I have a duty to mankind…

In the crowd, Nostradamus could feel an aura of pure hate, but when he glanced up to find the source, it had vanished. Cosmo Ruggieri had gone home to cast a death-spell on the old doctor.

***

The queen’s aura was devious and slippery in a manner that Michel de Nostre-Dame had found quite common on his travels among the princes of the earth. What was uncommon was not the saccharine smile with which she masked her calculations, nor yet the host of petty snobberies with which she shored up her weak position in a court that admired only beauty in women. What flamed up from the aura, unique and powerful, was Will, pure Will, fueled by a bright flame of rage, carefully concealed beneath a veil of caution.

“I see a long life,” said Nostradamus, having gazed at the lines in her palm, the freckles of her lower arms, and the balance of features on her pop-eyed, homely face. They sat alone, her attendants banished to an outer chamber.

“But my lord and husband, the king—” but then the queen hesitated, afraid to ask the critical question, the dangerous one, directly. “His life—is the prediction about the two lions in your book about him?”

Nostradamus answered with great care and tact. “The king your husband will live to an age of sixty-nine years, and be known as the greatest ruler since the Caesars. There is only one precaution: he must never duel in single combat with a man whose coat of arms contains a lion.”

“But the king is unlike any other; he cannot be challenged to a duel—” Nostradamus had taken in at a glance the cabalistic rings, the chain to some hidden medallion or charm, the dozens of signs that the queen believed herself in command of dark powers.

“With your powers,” he said, “you will know the time. It is up to you to dissuade him. Thus will you save the kingdom.” The pop eyes widened, and the chinless, round face nodded solemnly in agreement.

“Will he, will he—come to love me ever?” she asked.

“He will come to appreciate you,” said the old prophet. “More than that, I cannot tell.”

“That will never happen while he is under the spell of that old whore of his,” she burst out suddenly, her voice bitter. “How I yearn to be rid of her! Give me something to cause her to lose her influence over him! Tell me I’ll be free of her!”

“Your Highness, dabbling in sorcery would cause me to lose my powers of foresight,” said the old doctor, who had never hesitated to dabble in sorcery for his own benefit, but had given it up when he found it messy, inaccurate, and trying. “But I guarantee the time will come when you’ll be free of her.” A safe enough prediction, given the difference in their ages, he thought. But the queen assumed he was being tactful, and telling her, sorcerer to sorcerer, that her own magic would soon do the trick. Her heart surged with joy, and after a pleasant exchange on the subject of a special ointment that Nostradamus had invented, which would preserve her complexion in beauty forever, thus eventually making her more beautiful than all her rivals at court (since the old prophet assured her that a fine complexion and good character withstood the ravages of time far better than mere surface beauty), she asked him to go to the children’s household at Blois, to cast their horoscopes. “I want them all to achieve thrones,” she said.

“Why, of course,” said Nostradamus. Upon being escorted out of the queen’s audience chamber, he found he had received an offer of accommodation at one of the more luxurious mansions of Paris: the Hôtel de Sens, home of Charles, Cardinal de Bourbon and Archbishop of Sens. This splendid building, one of a collection belonging to the old royal enclave known as the Hôtel de Saint-Pol, was well located across the way from Les Tournelles, not far from the Bastille. An excellent location for a little temporary side business, thought the old doctor, although it was a bit far from the bookstores of the Left Bank.

Well, well, I lack only an invitation from the Guises now, he thought contentedly. There is nothing like factionalism to improve business. Signaling to his escort to pause, he stopped on a terrace to take in the splendid moment: the Seine lay in a shining arc below, winding into the distance between emerald banks. He took a deep breath, listening to a distant birdsong, the crow of a cock, the wind whipping the banners on the castle wall above him. His mind filled with joyful thoughts of home.

But the pleasant imagining of the nice little additions he would be able to make to his study, the repair of the garden wall, the new Christmas dress for his wife, was interrupted by renewed twinges of his gout. Damn, he thought, I could be in bed for days with another attack. The twinges got worse, and turned into sharp pains. By the time he had returned from St.-Germain to Paris, he had to be carried up the steps into the Archbishop’s palace. His joints felt exactly as if someone had thrust huge pins through them. Even when Léon was sent for and brought his opium, sleep fled before the agony.

No man could be more astonished than I to receive your letter, but since it was your father who gave it to me, I can only assume we have his permission to meet alone, this way.” A cloud crossed the sun, and its cold shadow made Laurette shiver and draw her shawl closer. She stood in the apple orchard, not far from the farmhouse, within sight of her father’s cold eye, which peered from an upstairs window at the clandestine meeting.

“My father and I are of a like mind,” said Laurette. “Sibille has disgraced us, flaunting herself in public, behaving like a hussy, dragging our good name in the mud.” The smell of rotten apples rose from around her feet, the last remainder of the harvest past. Pigs had been turned into the orchard, and the sound of their grunting, accompanied by the cry of a distant cockerel, broke the still autumn air.

“She has done far more than disgrace me,” said Thibault Villasse. Black powder exploded at close range had permanently stained his face with a dark shadow; a black leather patch covered his sightless right eye.

“I grieve for your wound, Monsieur de La Tourette,” said Laurette, making her blue eyes huge and sympathetic. Her simple blue wool dress set them off, she knew. She had braided the coils of her thick, golden hair into a crown and pinched her cheeks to make them rosy in preparation for this important meeting. Show interest, her father had said, and you may yet wed, my girl. A man puts his money where there’s attraction. I’ve seen his eyes when you’re in the room. My father’s a fool, thought Laurette, but I am not. I’ll take this chance to have what I want.

“Your sister is a devil incarnate,” said Villasse. “I only live because she is an idiot about firearms.” He was wearing heavy hunting boots, his old deerskin jerkin, and a broad-brimmed hat pulled low over his long, stringy, graying hair. His big bay mare was tethered behind him, still sweating from the long ride.

“I despise her,” said Laurette. “She is no sister of mine. She has stolen the dowry my aunt would have given me.”

“As well as the inheritance your father expected from his sister. The old woman had no children, after all—he was a fool to have given her Sibille—”

“But you see,” said Laurette, “if Sibille cannot marry, through some dreadful accident, of course, then my aunt will surely be generous with me—after all, I am her niece, too.”

“An accident? You mean, kill—?”

“Oh, no, that would be—I mean, that’s a sin—but revenge, the same amount, that’s fair, and no sin, you see—”

“What have you in mind?”

“Men swarm after her these days, you know. She lives at ease, gloating at the harm she’s done you. It’s no crime to get even, and really, it would work out better for both of us—”

“How?” said Villasse, leaning forward, his voice suddenly demanding.

“If she were hideous, blind, perhaps, the way she almost blinded you, then she could never marry. Why, she couldn’t even be seen in public. She wouldn’t be amusing anymore. My aunt would doubtless arrange for her to live in a convent—Sibille always said that’s what she wanted anyway, you know—then aunt would want
me
for a companion.”

“Exactly what do you have in mind?”

“Oil of vitriol—I’ve heard all about it. It can’t be washed off. It burns away the flesh to the bone. Just a splash, you see, but in the right place—she’d have to go into hiding forever—and couldn’t identify the attacker, either. And so many women who live as she does have rivals—why, it’s common—anyone could have done it—”

“And I am to arrange it?”

“I can’t leave here. Besides, I don’t know how to get it. But
you
, you can go where you wish. Throw oil of vitriol in her face, and we both have our revenge. It is entirely fair and just. And I will have what is mine.”

“What a brilliant plan,” said Villasse softly, almost to himself. “Only a woman could think of a plan like that.” He looked down at Laurette. She was so charming, so innocent, so much prettier than her bony, ugly, witch-like big sister. It was almost as if they weren’t of the same blood. Here was a real beauty.

“I would love the man who brought me justice,” said Laurette, looking up through her pretty eyelashes.

“So you’d displace your father in his inheritance?” said Villasse, his voice condescending and amused.

“He’s displaced already,” said Laurette. “Aunt Pauline told him that if she didn’t leave her fortune to Sibille, she’d leave it to a convent. But when Sibille’s gone, she’s bound to get lonely—”

“It’s perfect,” said Villasse.

“Old ladies,—you know how weak-minded they are. After a few weeks it will make no difference to her at all who reads aloud and plays cards with her, except that it’s much, much, more fair—for us both, you see,” she hastened to add.

As she watched Villasse ride into the distance, Laurette heard a rustle in the dead leaves behind her.

“Well, Laurette, did you speak to him of my debts?” She turned at the sound of her father’s voice.

“Of course I did, Father, exactly as you asked,” she answered.

“I’m sure your pretty little face will gain his sympathy,” said the Sieur de La Roque.

“I’m sure it did,” said Laurette. It’s a pity you’re such a fool, Father, she thought, but I’m not going to let that ruin
my
chances.

Ah, Laurette, how useful that pretty, brainless little head of yours is, thought her father, as he escorted her back to the farm gate. Once Villasse is thoroughly attracted, he’ll realize he can have vengeance, the vineyard, and you, all with one stroke. What does it matter to me if Sibille’s dead, as long as I didn’t do it? Once he’s done the deed, then the vineyard passes to Laurette and Villasse gets it and a prettier bride.

Sibille, that snobbish little sneak. She went too far when she wormed her way between me and my sister’s inheritance. What gave that girl the right to steal the fortune I’m owed? I swear, I always knew she’d come to bad—and once she’s out of the way, it won’t be hard to regain the inheritance my sister is hoarding from me…

***

Far away from the isolated farmstead, in Paris, on the rue de Bailleul, there is a substantial stone house whose peaked slate roof is ornamented with a dozen little turrets and equally as many chimneys. In a niche over the wide front door is a pretty Italian virgin and child, brightly painted, with real gilding on her crown and the stars that line her midnight blue perch. It is the house of Montvert the Italian banker, advisor to kings, to dukes, to anyone who needs a loan for a war, a new estate, or a fashionable mistress. From its glazed windows to its well-stocked cellars, it gives off an air of prosperity, new money, recent Frenchification, and a certain smug content. All of these things are a source of infinite humiliation to the only son of the house, who would sacrifice every stone of the place to have been born an impoverished French aristocrat of ancient pedigree, whose sole support was his ready rapier and sardonic wit. At the very moment that Laurette was in the apple orchard, Nicolas Montvert was deep in disagreement with his singularly thickheaded father.

“—and at the very least, if you were going to change it from Monteverdi, you could have made it
de
Montvert—”

“That would have been false—”

“So is Montvert—”

“Don’t change the subject on me, Nicolas, I told you you’re not going with me to Orléans, and that’s final. Your mother needs you here—”

“No more than I need to be there—”

“For what? You have failed to ingratiate yourself with M. Bonneuil, as well as all the other important connections I’ve made for you. Why would you suddenly want to—aha! I can tell by the look in your eye—”

“My eye looks just as it usually does.”

“Oh, no, it does not. You’ve fallen in love again. Were you hoping to droop after that skinny cousin of Madame Bonneuil’s? Hang under her window playing the mandura, or maybe set me up for a cash payment to get rid of her? That’s it, I know it, I see it all in your eye. Sibille Artaud—stay away from her. The whole family are nothing but a crowd of blue-blooded, money-sucking wastrels—”

“She’s different, Father, I can tell—”

“After
one
chance meeting? You can’t even tell which side of the bed to get up on. You mooncalf!
If
you ever become responsible, and
if
you ever make a respectable place for yourself in society, your mother and I will send to your cousins at home to find you a good Italian girl, a pure girl of some substantial banking family, to be your wife. Until then, stay away from women of ill fame. I won’t pay a sou—”

“She’s not—how dare you—she has a noble bearing—she—”

“And
I
have heard from Gondi that she’s been invited to attend the queen at court, and you know what
that
means—affairs, fortune hunting, perhaps a lover chosen by the queen herself for some purpose of high politics—stay away, Nicolas. You are not of that rank—or that level of depravity. You will be gobbled up in an instant.”

“I will
not
—”

“I’m telling you, if I find you hanging around a woman like that, I’ll sign the papers to put you in the Bastille as a wayward son of dissolute life—”

But, alas, Scipion Montvert had, in his fury and indignation, selected the one argument that would cloak the unknown woman in a permanent air of desirability, the glamorous fascination of forbidden fruit. In that very moment, Nicolas’s wayward eye, so easily intrigued by the glimpse of a remote-looking, elegant young woman, was now permanently affixed to the polestar. Sibille Artaud de La Roque. Tall, slender, aristocratic-looking in black, concealing a secret tragedy in her eyes, a woman of wit and learning, of ancient name, and best of all, appropriately impoverished. Only he, Nicolas the hero, with his bold sword and dauntless spirit, could save her from the evil cesspool of court life, to which she had doubtless been driven by the cruelest necessity. She was all he wanted on this earth.

“—and what is more, by the time I return, I expect you to have mastered the calculation of compound interest…” His father’s voice resounded up the staircase as he vanished in the direction of the stable.

God didn’t mean me for a bookkeeper, thought Nicolas. I am meant to rescue the tragically beautiful Sibille from the intrigues of a sinister and decadent court, we are destined to be one…

***

I distinctly remember that it was a Tuesday when the royal messenger came, bearing a letter laden with seals. Auntie was already aflutter with the preparations for the weekly visit of her second cousin once removed, the Abbé Dufour, who came as regular as clockwork each Tuesday at midafternoon to devour sweets and play checkers while discussing the newest discoveries in the sciences and the occult. He was a man of small stature and great wisdom, invited to many uplifting afternoons, where he would read the latest selections from his monumental work-in-progress,
On
the
Life
and
Habits
of
the
Tortoise, with Additional Notes on the Waterways of the
Î
le de France by the Author
.

“Five kinds of preserves, three cakes, and candied cherries, too! Auntie, you’ve outdone yourself today.”

“The Abbé loves my candied cherries almost as much as the
jeu
de
dames
. Don’t forget to put out the board over there, on the little table—Arnaud, I hear my cousin—show him in, show him in! I must tell him about the new pain I have, right here, and the strange ache over the liver, have his opinion about which waters will do it the most good.”

Once a year, the Abbé escorted Auntie, along with another elderly maiden cousin and his old mother, to take the cure at Plombières, at Enghien-les-Bains, at Évian or some other spot where the waters were guaranteed to cure rheumatism, gout, headache, pallor, wasting, consumption, palpitations, dropsy, paralysis, nervous afflictions, overbalancing of the humors, or a thousand other diseases, all of which they assumed they had, and some of which they actually did have. Part of what made him such a valued guest and confidant was his fondness for discussing the symptoms of rare and exotic diseases, preferably apparently mysteriously harmless at first, the awful deaths they occasioned, the randomness of Fate, Godly ends, and Miraculous Cures. I had learned much on these Tuesdays, and as these were new topics to me, and not about hunting, I did not mind them.

But it was not the Abbé who was shown in. Instead, we saw a dusty man in the queen’s livery, who waited for a reply.

“Read it for me, I’m so excited I can hardly make out the lines—no, give it back! See here, how splendid, how amazing—yes, it truly says it: ‘summoned to appear before the Queen,’ right there, written as plain as day—and to read a selection of your poetic and artistic works! Oh, my heart!” Auntie sat down and placed one hand on her heart, and with the other, fanned herself with the letter she was still holding. “Yes, yes, tell the queen we are most honored to accept—”

“The queen has charged me to inform you that she has a collection of rare and ancient boxes, and hears that you have a coffer worthy of her collection. Were you to present it to her, she might consider even greater favor—an entirely new position attached to her household—that of poetess—purely ceremonial, you understand—”

“A coffer? Nothing could give us more pleasure,” said Auntie, still beaming from her seat and clutching the letter.

“But—but my writings,” I said to her when the messenger had left. “How could the queen know?”

“How could she know about the box? Queens have their ways. But the honor, the distinction! To read your works! We’ll have a splendid presentation copy made up by hand—ha! They’ll
crawl
in this dreadful little town when they hear
we
are going to court! Not good enough for them, was I? And the Abbé will be thrilled when he hears that he can escort us to Saint-Germain! Sibille, that wretched mummy in the box has brought you good fortune without you having to wish for a single thing! That just goes to show that Virtue always wins in the end! But—yes, Arnaud, that’s him at the door at last. Hurry, hurry, I have such news!”