But the old banker didn’t answer. He’d fallen asleep, dead drunk, his head thrown back in the chair. As he started to snore, Aunt Pauline noticed that a random tear glittered on his unshaven face. Carefully, she arranged his cloak over his bulky form, and staggered off to bed, where she dreamed all night of blood.
***
In the dark, the waiting dockmen could hear the sound of oars over the water, as the two torches mounted on the bow of the approaching boat gleamed in the black night like two orange eyes. A sliver of new moon shone above, as shifting black clouds hid, then revealed, patches of stars. The Loire, black water between black banks, picked up the flickering orange lights, which seemed to spread like oil on the dark surface. Behind the men on the dock, horses moved impatiently, their harness jingling softly, and the dark forms of a litter, of mounted men holding lanterns, could barely be made out.
“He’s here,” whispered a guard.
“About time. They said he’d be here this afternoon.”
“The current is bad this time of year.”
The boat thumped, then made a grinding sound against the dock, as a pair of strong men lifted a human bundle out of the stern.
“We’re here, Maestro,” said one of the men. “Put in a good word for me, will you?”
“With the queen-mother, or with the spirits?”
“With both, if you have a chance. Remember that my son wants his own boat.” On the hill high above them, a white stone fortress with peak-roofed towers gleamed dully in the starlight.
“I hope she doesn’t expect me to walk up there,” said Nostradamus, standing on the dock and smoothing out his wrinkled gown the way a disturbed hen would preen her errant feathers. He took a tentative step or two, leaning heavily on his cane. “Oof! My gout! Worse than ever. I tell you, this is the last trip I take. Secret missions, indeed!” A half-dozen heavily armed guards piled out of the boat after Nostradamus.
“He’s all yours,” said their commanding officer to one of the horsemen on the dock. “Remember, the queen will have your ears if he’s not in perfect shape. He can’t walk more than ten feet, he requires two feather pillows, he doesn’t eat anything fried, and won’t drink wine less than five years old. Good luck.”
The old doctor and a large, mysterious bundle were loaded into the waiting litter, and escorted by torch-bearing outriders, the litter began the ascent of the steep, winding road to the waiting castle. In the forest beyond, owls hooted. One of the guards crossed himself superstitiously. Who knew what demonic magic lay within the bundle of the fearful prophet of doom? Those were not owls, but Satan’s minions, greeting their own.
***
The queen-mother was up late in her chambers, sitting at her desk writing by candlelight. It was a letter to Madame de Humières, discussing the care of her darling baby Hercule during this latest of his infant illnesses, “—and I have been assured that there is a sure cure in inhaling the smoke from yew wood to dissolve the poisons in the lung combined with the laying on of a poultice of oil of lilies and lavender—” There was a knock at the door. One of the queen’s ladies opened it and announced that Maître Nostredame had at last arrived.
The queen sent everyone outside to wait, where they clustered outside the door, hoping to catch a word or two of the secrets being discussed within the room. Gesturing silence, one of the ladies knelt and put her ear to the keyhole, but it was all in vain. The only word they caught was “Ruggieri” spoken indignantly by the old prophet.
“—true, I did consult him in equipping the Astrologer’s Room in the tower—it has everything you could possibly want, Maestro—but you understand I couldn’t trust him at all for something as delicate as this.”
“Cosmo Ruggieri could not make a magic mirror if his life depended upon it,” huffed Nostradamus.
“Even if he could,” responded the queen-mother, “he would turn around and sell the information to every enemy I have. Besides, you know that I consider only you the true prophet.”
“Apparently, Ruggieri’s attempt having failed.”
“How did you know that?” said the dumpy little woman in black.
“I divined it two days ago in the boat. And after I’d been harassed into this trip with the assurance that my prediction would be exclusive. My powers are a curse,” he grumbled.
“I have to know,” she said in a mysterious tone, breaking off as if she could say no more.
“Exactly what?” asked Nostradamus, pretending to be slightly deaf.
“I thought perhaps your powers might have informed you,” responded the queen-mother, rather waspishly.
“Even if they did, I want the word from your mouth.”
“Very well then, I want to know the future of the throne of France.” You mean you want to know how long the Queen of Scots and the Guises will rule the roost, thought the old prophet.
“The magic mirror is a very delicate object,” he said. “Luckily, I began the forty-two days of purification on the road, so we will be ready at the next full moon.”
“You are dismissed,” said the little woman in black. “Do tell my attendants to come back in when you leave. And remember, rich rewards shall be yours if you keep my trust.”
I’d rather be assured of a decent bed tonight, grumped the old prophet to himself. You’re more likely to keep your word on that. Maybe I should ask for a deposit, before I set up the mirror. After she sees what it predicts, I’m just likely to leave empty-handed. Hmm. How to do it subtly? Perhaps I’ll tell her I need several pounds of rare herbs and spices for spell-casting. Something that could be resold for serious cash. I certainly don’t want to have to borrow the money to go home this time.
***
Nine hours after Nostradamus’s arrival by night, Nicolas arrived at Chaumont in broad daylight. Seated on his little hackney, he paused to survey the chateau in front of him and let the full hopelessness of his mission sink in. Chaumont sat on the crest of a green hill above the Loire. Hemmed in by forest on the land side, it was shut in and somber, built in four wings arranged in a square, fully walled, a fortress having yet to be remodeled as a pleasure-palace in the new style. High, pointed slate roofs rose above white towers; the windows were narrow, and the only access was by means of a drawbridge. How, how, Nicolas puzzled, was he to get in? Dusty and disappointed, he reflected morosely on the difficulties of being a hero in these modern times. In ancient days, he might have ridden up in full armor, pounded on a shield that hung at the gate, and demanded to challenge the governor of the castle in a fair fight, thus releasing the damsel in distress from her evil captors. But he was clad in a leather jerkin and dusty short cloak, and mounted on a piebald hackney that resembled a knight’s charger no more than he did a knight. Well, he said to himself, the era of chivalry may be coming to a close, but the era of mind is dawning; after all, what’s a brain for?
The drawbridge clearly was not pulled up until nighttime, and as he watched, he observed that all mounted men, armed men, and persons of rank were stopped and questioned. But in and out, almost as if invisible, wagons rumbled with grain and hay, old women with baskets of eggs on their heads, swineherds driving pigs, milkmaids with cows went unchallenged. The very thing, he thought, as he took his horse off to the village inn to stable it, and then hiked laboriously back up the hill. Ahead of him, an ox-wagon laden with wine casks was struggling on the rutted road. The proprietor of the casks had got out of the cart to help push from behind, while the boy driving the oxen cracked the whip over their backs, but could make no progress.
“Hey, fellow, let me help,” called Nicolas, blessing all his stars that he was not in shining armor after all, and after a brief negotiation, shucked his telltale sword belt and cloak into the cart, and joined the vintner in disengaging the cart from the deep ruts. Couldn’t be easier, he thought as they passed the guard without question and he retrieved his sword from among the casks. And before anyone had time to question him, he had dodged into the nearest doorway that opened onto the cobblest
oned courtyard. Just walk as if you had business, he said to himself.
“Hey, fellow, where are you going?” said the captain of the archers, who was lounging on the staircase.
“Courier from Signor Gondi for Her Majesty, the queen-mother,” he said, assuming a heavy Italian accent.
“Ha! The banker! Next time, bring my paycheck!” Pretending he didn’t speak French very well, Nicolas nodded agreeably, the way foreigners do when they don’t get a joke, and hurried up to the landing. An unpleasant thought had occurred to him. In all this great mass of rock, how was he to find where Sibille was hidden?
“Fellow, the queen-mother’s apartments are that way,” called the guard. With one hand, the guard indicated a vague direction Nicolas couldn’t make out.
“Mille grazie,” said Nicolas.
“Damned foreigners,” said the guard, spitting on the stone steps.
Pretending that he knew where he was going, Nicolas followed the direction indicated by the hand until he was out of sight, then collared a page carrying a water pitcher, who told him that the queen had just left the astrologer’s chamber. Astrologer’s chamber, thought Nicolas. The very place that she’d put that dismal talking head of Sibille’s. And where the head is, Sibille won’t be far away. Hand on his sword hilt, he climbed the stairs of the turreted observatory that held the astrologer’s chamber. Plunging through an open door, he found himself in a tall, brick-walled chamber where the last of the twilight filtered dimly through high, narrow windows. An athanor sat in a huge open hearth, there was a curtained bed in one corner, and a worktable against the wall, laden with books, bottles, and a human skull.
“Come in,” said a voice from the shadows, and Nicolas made out the form of a long-bearded man of medium height standing in the shadows at the far side of the room. On a writing desk in front of him lay something flat and metallic; in front of the desk was a cage of live pigeons. The man was wearing the hat and gown of a doctor. The gown of Montpellier, not Paris. I know him, thought Nicolas. We’ve met. The man who saved Sibille’s arm from the vitriol, and told me my astrological sign. Why is he here? “I’ve been expecting you,” said the old man.
“Doctor Nostradamus,” said Nicolas, “what are you doing here?”
“A secret mission,” said the great prophet, stepping out of the shadows to greet Nicolas. “If you must know, I’m engaged in preparing a magic mirror, for which I expect to be paid far less than it’s worth. So here I am, hauled off like a sack of barley in the middle of the night, and all because of a middle-aged lady’s guilty conscience. It’s not as if she ever asked me for advice when there was time to mend. Oh, no. Cosmo Ruggieri, Simeoni, Guaricus, any old quack that walked by her door—but not Nostradamus, who knew all along she should have kept her hands off the undead. So, why are you here?”
“I thought you’d know that already, too,” said Nicolas.
“No, I just had a prophetic dream that you’d be standing here, all dusty, annoying me about something or other. State your business and be done.”
“It must be Fate,” said Nicolas, rather awed. “I’ve come to rescue Sibille Artaud de La Roque, the only woman I will ever love, who is being held here in secret. But I have no idea where she is. But you, a diviner, can obviously find her instantly.”
“Hmp. The poetess. You expect me to find her? I should have known. People expect me to find everything they’ve misplaced,” said the old doctor. “But tell me, what makes you think she’d be here?”
“It’s that ghastly old mummified head she’s stuck with,” said Nicolas. “Her aunt Pauline says she thinks the queen has decided to get rid of it because it brought about the king’s death. And once she gets rid of the head, she’ll get rid of Sibille for knowing all about it.” Impulsively, Nicolas knelt on one knee before the old man, and took off his hat, which he clutched to his heart. “Maestro, you have to help. I beg you to help. If anything happens to Sibille, I’ll have to kill myself, and that would break my father’s heart.”
“And not yours, eh?” The old doctor chuckled. “Oh, you young men. When I was young, I was passionate, too—but for wisdom.”
“I don’t want any more wisdom than I’ve got. I just want Sibille. Help me, help me save her, Maestro!”
“Ah, my dear young man. Often in life we acquire more wisdom than we want. But, be that as it may—I see you are in a mood to draw your sword against the palace guard in an attempt to rescue the demoiselle, which would be quite fruitless and lead to your early demise. Therefore, put away your sword and rely on me. Tonight at midnight the queen returns for the reading she’s ordered. I have a plan.”
“A plan? Only a plan?”
“But it is a plan of Nostradamus, young man.”
“Nicolas, please.”
“Nicolas then. So, Nicolas, stay and help me. I’m much too stiff to do this all alone. I don’t know what she had in mind, hauling me off like this. I could have sent her something by mail…” The old doctor began to grumble as he opened the pigeon cage.
“What do you need done?” asked Nicolas.
“Well, first, rummage in that chest over there, I need a human tibia.”
“A what?”
“A shinbone. And, if you’re interested, I’ll show you how to magnetize a cat—”
***
“I hate you, hate you, hate you. Just look what you’ve done now,” I said to Menander’s box, which sat on the floor in front of me, on a pile of rotten straw. The only illumination in the tiny, stone-walled room was a flickering candle in a cheap iron candlestick. Somewhere, a draft was entering the room and bringing air. But there wasn’t even a window. Nor a chair, either, and the walls and floor oozing damp. My feet are cold and my bottom’s going to sleep, sitting on the floor like this.
“Shut up, I’m thinking,” said the thing in the box, and then it fell silent again. This must be the deepest cellar in the whole donjon of Chaumont, I thought. It must be a trick, locking me in here. Someone else has done this, not the queen. Someone who wants to own Menander, and that means I’m as good as dead. Who would even hear me scream, so deep down, behind such a heavy door? Then I thought about Nicolas, who wouldn’t ever even know what had happened to me, and I burst into tears and sobbed a good long time. Why had I been given the gift of love, and from it, the flame of true art, if it was all meant to end like this? I had just about cried myself into exhaustion when I heard the jingle of keys, and the door opened inward. On the threshold stood a guard with a key ring and a blazing torch. Behind him came two guards and a huge, silent fellow in a leather apron, who was carrying a large sack. They filed into the little room without a word. Behind them came another guard with a torch, and then the queen herself stood before me. She was all dressed in black, with a heavy veil over her face. The veil just didn’t bode well.
“Mademoiselle de La Roque, the very least you can do is rise when your queen enters the chamber.”
“I’m terribly sorry, but my joints are stiff, and my legs have gone to sleep,” I said, making a show of a struggle, but not getting up. After all, if one is going to be killed, manners cease to take the preeminent place in one’s consciousness.
“I’m sure you understand, this is a matter of state, not personal at all. Your poetry will live after you; I believe you will find that a consolation.”
“I’d rather have children to live after me. What you have in mind is entirely unfair, I’m sure.”
“I have come to destroy Menander, and while it is regrettable that you are attached to him, your presence at court is a sacrifice that I must be prepared to make.”
The queen’s voice sounded very nasty and cold, and I could hardly believe I’d ever thought her nice. Oh, Sibille, my Higher Self lectured me, you put your sweet and trusting faith in honey and falseness, and now you are doomed. Poor Nicolas will seek your tomb in vain, and be heartbroken forever. It’s very poetic. But my Lower Self said to me, don’t let her get off easily. Think! Think! Turn the knife of guilt in her bosom, and
she may relent. “My blood will curse you forever,” I said, but it didn’t seem to bother her at all.
“I am already accursed,” said the queen, “and it’s all your fault for bringing me that evil, diabolical being in the box by your feet. You knew it would curse me. It is you that caused the king’s death by sorcery.”
“I hardly think so. After all, you wanted it, and if you hadn’t sent for it, it never would have been attached to me, and I’d be happy drawing plants and writing poems in my father’s house, at this very minute.” Actually, I wouldn’t be happy there at all, I thought, but there’s no use letting her know that.
“That’s what happens when women are not content with their lot, and go seeking after glory and favor,” said the queen. “Let this be a lesson to you; a woman’s crowning glory is service to her family. Everything that happened is your fault. You are fortunate that I am so merciful. The cup and flask—” She stretched out a hand to the man in the apron who had the big sack, and he took out a little flask and a metal cup, which he handed her. She filled it, and at a gesture, he took it and set it down beside me. “This is very quick,” she said. “You may choose this, or the slower way. You have to understand, this room is very small, and I do not want blood splashed on my hem.”
“What do you mean?” I cried, struggling to my feet.
“Oh, now you can get up. I always knew you were insolent. Yes, I’m sure you deserve this. Hold her while the box is sealed,” she said. While I struggled against the guards, the man in the apron took a mallet and seven long steel spikes out of his bag, and drove them straight through Menander’s box.
“Stop that,” came a leathery little voice from inside. “You’re interrupting my ratiocination.”
Judith Merkle Riley Page 42
