This Heart of Mine (65 page)

T
he coach that carried Michael O’Malley, the bishop of Mid-Connaught, from the French coast to Paris was a large and comfortable vehicle. Four strong horses guided by an expert coachman galloped along the snowy, midwinter roads that by virtue of the hard-packed snow were actually in much better condition than the rutted, potholed earth beneath. The landscape was mostly black and white, the leafless trees stretching their barren branches skyward, the smoke from occasional cottages and farms dark against the gray gloom.

Looking out through the coach’s very expensive glass windows, the bishop shivered. He himself was quite warm and comfortable amid the dark green velvet upholstery, covered by a thick gray fox coverlet, a brazier of hot coals at his feet. Gold, he thought with a soft smile, certainly had its uses. Leaning forward, he drew the back of the front seat down and removed a willow basket from the niche there. Opening it, he took out a leather decanter of dark red Burgundy and filled the silver cup that was also in the basket. Closing his eyes, he inhaled the heady fragrance of the wine with a connoisseur’s palate before taking his first blissful sip. Fitting the goblet between his knees, he recorked the decanter and, having replaced it in the basket, drew forth a little crock of goose-liver pâté and a small, crisp loaf of bread, which had been wrapped in a rough linen napkin and was yet warm. Breaking a piece of bread off, he used it to scoop up a dollop of the pâté and popped the entire thing into his mouth, chewing delightedly. The pâté was excellent, and the bread had a wonderful crust on it.

The inn at which he had spent the night had been a charming one, and since they were still a half-day’s travel from Paris, the innkeeper’s wife had packed him the basket to tide him over. He had done her the honor of hearing her confession and pronounced only a light penance for her few but troublesome sins. Finishing his meal with a crisp pear, he packed the basket away behind the seat again and gazed back out the
window. A light snow was beginning to fall, and Michael O’Malley did not envy either the coachman or the men-at-arms who escorted his coach. In the distance, however, he could see the spires of Notre Dame poking through the grayness. It would not be too long now.

He would be staying at the Paris town house of Adam de Marisco’s mother and stepfather, the Comte and Comtesse de Cher, which was located in the rue Soeur Celestine on the Rive Gauche. It was a small house, having only six bedchambers, but the bishop would be quite comfortable and well taken care of by a staff of servants who had been sent up from the comte and comtesse’s estate at Archambault in the Loire.

Michael O’Malley turned his thoughts to the task ahead of him. It would not be an easy one, and even though he would be dealing with an old friend, the utmost diplomacy would be required. The truth of the matter was that he understood the logic behind Father Ourique’s actions. God help the man! Exiled from Europe and expected to work miracles of conversion for the holy mother church without, Michael wagered with himself, any monies sent him. Desperate to do well, to be brought to the attention of his superiors in Portugal, in Paris, and in Rome—and desperate, Michael suspected, to be brought home—the Jesuit had undoubtedly seen his future disappearing over the horizon in the same direction as Lord and Lady de Marisco. He had done the only thing he felt he could in taking Velvet hostage in exchange for delivery of the ransom. Michael believed, however, that Father Ourique had been unaware of the Portuguese governor’s brooding desire for revenge. The whole matter was an unfortunate combination of bad timing and worse luck, with his niece the innocent victim. Poor little Velvet! The bishop’s face darkened with his concern. What tortures was she enduring in what must be for so sheltered a lass a terrifying captivity? He sincerely prayed that she would survive to be released from her bondage.

The coach came to an abrupt stop, and, focusing his eyes on the outside world, Michael saw that they were already in Paris and, in fact, were awaiting the gatekeeper of
Chez Cher
to open the gates so that they might enter the mansion’s courtyard. The snow was falling heavily now, and the bishop could just make out the shambling figure of the porter as he pulled open the entry. The coachman, eager to see the end of his journey, and doubtless thinking of a warm fire and a good pint, almost toppled the gatekeeper over as he hurried his horses into the courtyard and pulled up before the house’s double doors, which swung wide magically. Two liveried footmen ran
down the three steps and, opening the carriage door, pulled down the steps and helped Michael O’Malley descend.

“Merci, merci!”
the bishop said, signing them with the cross in thanks, and then he moved hastily into the building.

A thin, spare man came quickly forward.
“Bienvenue, Monsieur le évêque.
I am Alard, the majordomo.” He drew a tiny, plump woman forward. “My wife, Jeannine, who is the housekeeper and cook. We have been sent by Madame la comtesse to see to your needs, and we will try to make your stay a pleasant one. Is it possible that you can tell us how long you plan to be in Paris?”

“Not for more than a week or two at the most,” Michael replied.

“Thank you, my lord bishop. Let me show you to your rooms now, and you must tell me if there is anything that we can do for you at this moment.”

“I’ll need someone to take a message to a friend of mine, Father O’Dowd, a Jesuit.”

Alard bowed. “Of course, my lord bishop. As soon as you’re settled, I’ll send a footman to you.”

The messenger was dispatched and returned within another hour. He had found Father O’Dowd, who sent back word that he would be delighted to see his old friend, and would the evening meal be too soon? When Michael passed this query on to Jeannine, the plump little woman smiled mischievously and, bobbing him a curtsy, promised an excellent dinner.

When Bearach O’Dowd arrived, Michael O’Malley could not help but think how little his friend had changed. Of medium height and plump of figure, Bearach O’Dowd had the round, innocent face of a choirboy. He was fair of skin with fat, pink Irish cheeks and deceptively bland light blue eyes with long sandy-colored lashes that matched his close-cropped sandy hair. He was dressed as a Jesuit, but, Michael noted, his robes were of the best materials and well cut.

“You’ve brought a bit of peat whiskey, Michaeleen?” was his greeting. “I’ve not been able to think of anything else since your messenger brought me word you were in Paris.”

The bishop laughed. “Aye, I’ve got it. How else would two old friends toast each other, Bearach?” Walking to the library table, he poured them both a dram of the smoky whiskey and, handing his friend one, raised his own goblet. “Ireland!” he said.

“Ireland, God help her!” came the Jesuit’s reply.

When the whiskey had been downed by both men, Michael led the way into a small dining room, and they sat down to
the dinner table. True to her word, Jeannine had prepared a wonderful supper for the two clerics. Bowls of mussels, braised in white wine and garlic, with individual bowls of Dijon sauce de moutarde began the meal, which was served family style as there were only two diners. The broth surrounding the mussels was as delicious as were the delicately flavored shellfish themselves.

When the bowls containing the thoroughly pillaged shells had been removed, Alard directed the footmen to pass various platters and bowls. There was a lovely, fat duck, its skin burned black, its flesh rare, stuffed with apricots and prunes, and served with wild plum sauce. There was a fine savory ragout of beef, fragrant with red wine and fine herbs, and served with fluffy little dumplings; a bowl of tiny potatoes, another of onions, and one of celery and carrots. The last dish presented in this course was a small ham baked in a flaky pastry that had been glazed with egg.

Both Michael O’Malley and Bearach O’Dowd were men of great appetite. They handily finished Jeannine’s offerings as well as a loaf of crusty bread and a crock of sweet butter from Normandy that had been placed upon the table. A large decanter of Burgundy from the Archambault vineyards was emptied as well.

Jeannine smiling from ear to ear at the priests’ flattering appreciation of her culinary skills, served the sweet herself. It was a large tartlet of pears set within a delicate, cakelike crust that had been filled with a sweet custard. The goblets were refilled with a light, fruity white wine. Both clerics raised their goblets to Jeannine who, already flushed from the heat of her kitchen, turned a deeper pink in her pleasure.

Their meal completed, Michael and Bearach adjourned back to the library. Their glasses refilled, they settled themselves cosily before the fire. Outside the winter storm howled noisily, rattling the windows.

“What brings an Irish bishop to Paris, Michaeleen?” The Jesuit’s curiosity was finally aroused.

“ ’Tis a family matter,” came Michael’s calm reply, “and ’twas thought that since your aunt is an O’Malley and you’re therefore a part of the family that you’d like to aid us.”

“If I can,” was Bearach’s canny answer.

“Aye, you can.”

“Well, out with it, man! Unless you’re planning to keep me here all night.” “You’ll remember my sister, Skye,” began Michael.

“And who could forget that beautiful creature?” demanded
Bearach. “Has she outlived another husband, then, Michaeleen? Or is she still wed to that big man, de Marisco, was it?”

“Adam de Marisco, and, aye, they’re still happily married. ’Twill be eighteen years this Michaelmas.”

“Well, what’s the problem, then?” asked Bearach O’Dowd.

“I’d best begin at the beginning,” said Michael. “Several years ago my sister and her husband departed England for a voyage to the East Indies. As you’ll remember Skye and her partner, Sir Robert Small, have had a profitable relationship for many, many years with a number of the island sultans. Their ship was damaged in a storm and blown off course. They ended up becalmed just off Bombay and were taken in tow by the Portuguese.”

Bearach O’Dowd nodded, all the while thinking to himself that Skye O’Malley’s destination had probably been India all along, and that she had likely been on an expedition for the English with an eye toward opening trade with the Grand Mughal himself. He doubted the Portuguese, and their Spanish masters, would have liked that.

“The Portuguese governor took my sister, her husband, and their ship and crew hostage, forcing my nephew, Captain Murrough O’Flaherty, to return to England in his own vessel to fetch the ransom demanded,” Michael continued. “The governor was under the direct influence of, and guided by, his Jesuit advisor Father Ourique.”

“Are you holding the Jesuit order responsible then for the irresponsible act of one man, Michaeleen?”

“Wait, Bearach, there is a good deal more. Hear me out, and then we will discuss our differences.”

The Jesuit nodded, then listened intently as his old friend told the tale of Velvet’s misadventures.

“Jesus Christus!” exploded Bearach O’Dowd when Michael had finished. He could now see what his old friend and playmate was getting at. The O’Malleys were holding the Jesuits responsible for the kidnapping of one of their own. Here was a fine kettle of fish! In their own small way the O’Malleys of Innisfana, though but a minor branch of the great seafaring family, had a certain amount of influence, and a great deal of money behind that influence.

Bearach O’Dowd’s nimble mind scrambled to remember what he could of Velvet de Marisco. Her father was not of an important family, but de Marisco’s stepfather, the Comte de Cher, was highly thought of by the French royal family, and despite the fact that there was currently a civil war raging in France over the succession, royal connections were not to be
sneezed at. Holy Father! The girl’s godmothers were Queen Margot herself and Elizabeth of England! Was it possible that the actions of one greedy priest could destroy the Jesuits’ reputation and ruin their years of hard work?

Gathering his wits, Bearach O’Dowd said in a voice that belied his thumping heart, “How is it you think the Jesuits might help you, Michaeleen? I don’t quite understand what it is you want.”

Michael O’Malley hid a smile. Bearach, his old and good friend, was no fool. His position within the order was that of banker. He had a knack for increasing wealth through investments that endeared him to his superiors. That talent gave him a certain amount of power. “There are Jesuits at the Emperor Akbar’s court, Bearach,” he said. “The emperor, I am told, was born a Moslem, and my sister, Skye, who knows these things says that no honest Moslem will take unto his bed the wife of a living man. Skye, has sent me to you, Bearach. She holds the Jesuit order responsible for Velvet’s plight, but she also believes that you can aid her, aid me in getting to Akbar’s court to present our case before the emperor. The O’Malleys would be most grateful, Bearach.”

“How grateful?”
The two words were sharp and clear.

“Very grateful,”
was Michael’s equally enigmatic reply, but the two men understood each other. The O’Malleys would not settle upon a price until they got what they wanted, but they would be very generous in the end.

“It is possible that we might be able to help you, Michaeleen, but mind you we cannot accept responsibility for the actions of one foolish priest.”

“A Jesuit
, Bearach. One of your own, not just some random priest. Otherwise I should be in Rome and not Paris,” Michael O’Malley gently reminded him.

“Of course, old friend, and you have but to tell me what it is that you want.”

“The Jesuits are welcome at Akbar’s court, Bearach. I have even heard talk of his conversion.”

Bearach O’Dowd snorted. “A dream of glory-seekers, but never say I told you so, Michaeleen. ’Tis my opinion that they’ll never convert him, and that opinion is held by those in the higher strata of the order than I, but ’twill never be admitted aloud. Still, he welcomes us to his court and does nothing to hinder our conversion of the population.”

“Then a letter of introduction from the Jesuits will obtain me an interview with the emperor, Bearach. It will keep the Portuguese from hindering me in my mission. I do not intend
to land at Bombay at any rate, but rather I shall debark at Cambay. That port is under the emperor’s control. After that it will be a journey of at least six weeks overland in order to reach Akbar’s capital of Lahore.”