***
“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.
“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. T
here 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.”
Sixteen
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 abandon
ed 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.
Judith Merkle Riley Page 26
