The Nostradamus Prophecy

by Theresa Breslin

  ‘I wish to thank you for bringing me Paladin, the leopard!’ the King said, holding out his hands towards Gaspard Coligny.

  The Huguenot leader took the proffered hand, bent his head and kissed the fingers of his king. ‘It is an honour to serve your majesty,’ he said.

  ‘And you, beloved Henri, prince of the blood royal, such a generous act I will never forget!’ King Charles stretched across his saddle and embraced his cousin. Both young men, direct descendants of the saintly King Louis of France, seemed genuinely glad to see each other. ‘You must ride one on either side of me today,’ the king declared.

  There were murmurs of annoyance and discontent from the lords, who had to shift from their privileged positions to make room for the two Huguenots.

  Then the dogs began to yip and the horses to whicker and neigh in alarm and I knew immediately that Melchior and his leopard had arrived. Most of the other riders reined in, but the king pushed his horse on and I urged my own mount into the space created so that I had a better view. Melchior and Paladin were by the outside gate. The leopard was not muzzled.

  ‘Now, sir.’ The king waved his hand to his cousin. ‘Introduce me to this most exquisite beast.’

  Prince Henri dismounted and with a firm step went up to Melchior and Paladin and placed himself before them. The leopard stretched out its neck. Now its face was almost on a level with Prince Henri. Its eyes stared and it opened its mouth wide and licked its chops. But Henri stood his ground. Melchior spoke once and the leopard sat back on its haunches.

  ‘King Charles’ – Prince Henri bowed low – ‘be pleased to make the acquaintance of Paladin, the leopard.’

  The king laughed and clapped his hands. When he called on the rest of his court to applaud the bravery of the Huguenot prince, the scowl on the face of the Duke of Guise deepened.

  In the midst of this Chantelle whispered to me,

  ‘Armand is here.’

  Chantelle’s betrothed had managed to come as near to her as he dared. But it was Count de Ferignay who caught my attention. He edged his horse closer to the Duke of Guise and I saw them, with lowered glances, exchange some words.

  The king held up his hand. The long shuffling line of people and animals quietened. The king let fall his hand. The clarion call of the hunting horn echoed from the palace walls to meadow and valley beyond.

  The hunt was up!

  Chapter Six

  TO THE THUNDER of horses’ hooves, the barking of dogs, and the whoops and shouts of those taking part we streamed away from the palace of Cherboucy.

  Melchior and Paladin ran ahead, and from the outset the pace was swift. Those taking part in the hunt wore special hunting clothes. The men’s leather jerkins were split at the back for ease of movement while most of the women had adopted the queen’s mode: when she hunted, she wore long pantaloons under her dress so that she could preserve her modesty, for she had the habit of hitching up her skirts to allow her to hook one leg around the pommel of her saddle. Ladies wishing to keep to the forefront of the hunt now adopted this method of sitting on their horses as it helped us to ride as far and almost as fast as many of the men.

  The king and Prince Henri cantered beside Melchior and the leopard. The king’s outfit of Florentine purple slashed with crimson silk contrasted with the plain black and white of his cousin’s Huguenot clothes. Beside the muted garb of Admiral Gaspard Coligny and Prince Henri’s attendants the rest of the company dazzled colour. Fine silverwork decorated the horse trappings and the tunics of the vassals and squires showed the coats of arms of their masters. Members of the House of Guise, to show their royal lineage, wore tunics decorated with the lily of France.

  We reached the outskirts of the forest and drew rein. Horses and riders and huntsmen on foot milled around while the dogs ran up and down, tracking here and there, trying to pick up a trail.

  Melchior stood some way off and unhitched the chain from the collar round the leopard’s neck. He gave it to one of the servants to carry. Then he removed his shirt. The women beside me glanced at each other. One ran her tongue around the edge of her lips and the other giggled. The skin on Melchior’s chest was a lighter hue than his face, a creamy bronze that gleamed like gold dust. He laid his hand on Paladin’s head and then turned to face the forest. As he did so a little gasp went round the company and I felt my own pulse quicken.

  Intricate whorls, like a circular maze, covered Melchior’s back. Painted in hues of violet, green, yellow and indigo, the lines spiralled and twisted across each shoulder and down his spine to the waistband of his breeches.

  ‘Pagan symbols,’ one of the huntsmen growled to another.

  I stared at the pattern. It was of another age, another belief. From the depths of antiquity, closer to Nature than the rituals of the religions of our time, they reminded me of deep carvings I’d seen on standing stones in the south of England, in Carnac in western France, and somewhere else that I could not quite recall. They were not the same, yet they had a fleeting familiarity, like a tune absorbed in childhood which haunts your memory when falling asleep.

  The dogs began to sound and the cry went up.

  ‘The staghounds have the scent!’

  ‘So soon!’ Charles cried in delight. ‘Why, on previous days I have wasted hours thrashing around in dense bush before starting an animal.’ He shouted to Admiral Gaspard Coligny, ‘You have brought me luck today!’

  The Huguenot leader beamed with pleasure. Then, as the king was absorbed elsewhere, he sent a triumphant glance in the direction of the Duke of Guise.

  The king glanced around. ‘Where is Melchior? Where is the leopard?’

  Melchior was already there. He had wound his shirt around his waist and tied it like a scarf. Now he bent to speak in the leopard’s ear.

  Boy and beast sprang forward, and we were off!

  Melchior and Paladin ran with easy strides. Muscles rippling beneath their skin, they loped together after the staghounds, and we followed.

  Many of the court ladies were not there for the sport of hunting animals, but rather to parade a new costume or hat. Their true intention was to ensnare another gallant for their amusement. Therefore some of the men found it more diverting to slow their pace to accommodate these women and thus pursue their own quarry. We soon left them behind. I had travelled on horses through the woods and hills of England, Spain and France, and I could keep my saddle with the best of them.

  Before long we glimpsed the stag. Again Charles cried out in a high-pitched voice, hysterical with joy. ‘Magnificent! With full antlers! A true king of the forest! Worthy of a king of France!’

  The animal plunged away into dense wood and now we were relying on the dogs. The huntsmen listened intently to their baying, then hacked through bushes and guided us. For a while we struggled on, until Paladin and Melchior veered down a different path. King Charles hesitated. Prince Henri pointed to where the leopard had gone, and he and King Charles galloped off in that direction. Those closest to him, including myself, went too. A short way behind us, the remainder of the hunt crashed off through the trees in the wake of the hounds.

  Our small group burst into an empty clearing and scrabbled to a stop. Melchior was standing beneath a massive tree. His great cat lay along one of the wide spread branches.

  The Duke of Guise cried out, ‘The leopard has lost its way!’

  ‘It has not,’ said Melchior.

  King Charles reined in and trotted his sweating horse over to Melchior. ‘Why then does it not pursue the stag?’

  ‘It is not a cheetah or a panther.’ The boy spoke quietly, but with authority. ‘The leopard hunts in its own distinct way.’

  ‘It’s not hunting,’ the Count de Ferignay remarked loudly, to much amusement. ‘It’s hiding!’

  ‘Hush!’ The king waved for quiet.

  He had seen the leopard’s ears prick up.

  ‘Move back!’ Melchior spoke in such a way that all, even the king, obeyed him, melting into the surrounding cover.


  A huge stag came bounding from the trees. It reared and stopped, sniffing the air.

  ‘Ahhhh!’ Charles looked as though he might swoon in ecstasy. Bright spots of red coloured his cheeks.

  ‘If you want the leopard to make the kill,’ Melchior told him, ‘you must hold the dogs.’

  The king glanced at Prince Henri, who nodded. Charles jumped from his horse and gave orders. Men went to call the dogs and try to prevent them running in. Now the other huntsmen who had caught up came creeping from the bushes. The weapon-carriers distributed the spears, and crossbows primed to fire. One man carrying a long knife the length of a man’s arm presented it to King Charles. Two others, similarly armed, stood on either side to protect the king lest the stag should charge him.

  ‘Stay!’ the king commanded. ‘I want to see the leopard make the kill.’

  And suddenly I felt sorry for the creature. The stag pawed the ground, drool hanging from its mouth. I know that it is necessary that animals should die that we might live. It is part of their cycle. As we in turn must quit this earth at the end of our allotted time else there would be no room for our descendants. But seeing this noble beast at bay made my heart quake.

  Barking furiously, some hounds who’d escaped being restrained pelted into the clearing and flung themselves at their prey. The stag lowered its antlers, gored and gathered them, and threw them into the air. The tortured animals hurtled to the ground, blood pouring from their ripped bodies.

  The king cried out. It was a cry of joy. The dogs’ screeches of pain served to inflame his senses.

  With supple agility Paladin launched himself into the next tree and climbed up to a higher branch.

  ‘The leopard is a coward!’ The Count de Ferignay spoke out loudly. ‘See how it backs away. Let me finish off the stag before we lose it.’

  Without taking his eyes from Paladin, Melchior spoke again to the king. ‘I tell you, sire, in the wild it is from a tree that this cat makes its kill. The leopard will not fail you.’

  ‘Do you hear, Ferignay?’ The king’s voice shook with excitement. ‘The boy assures me that, in their own habitat, this is how these beasts capture their prey.’

  Ferignay directed a look of fury at Melchior.

  Again the leopard moved lithely, choosing its best position as the stag tossed its antlers in anger at being menaced by the encircling hunters.

  But now surely the hunted animal must try to break for freedom?

  The moment came. The stag chose to fight. It straightened its forelegs and thrust forward its massive head.

  ‘I thought the leopard would make the kill.’ King Charles put his fist to his mouth to stifle a moan of disappointment.

  The stag prepared to charge.

  And then the leopard pounced.

  In one lithe movement Paladin leaped from the tree onto the back of the stag. Claws extended, it dug them deep into its victim and with powerful fangs bit into its neck. The stag struggled, trying to throw off its attacker. Snarling in fury, the leopard clung on. But the stag was strong and flexed its shoulder muscles again. Paladin slipped to one side. The king howled in despair. The stag twisted round, attempting a final move to dislodge the leopard.

  A fatal mistake.

  Turning this way exposed its front. With incredible speed the leopard loosed its hold on the back of its prey, opened its jaws once more and fastened its teeth deep into the stag’s throat. Blood spurted out from the throat of the mortally wounded beast.

  The king gave a squeal of ecstasy.

  ‘You were wrong, Ferignay!’ he called out. ‘The leopard is a fighter!’

  The stag shook its head. It battered the leopard against the ground but Paladin would not let go. And now the stag was on its knees, blood pouring from the gaping wound. Its eyes rolled in its head and we heard its death rattle.

  ‘Use your knife,’ I heard Prince Henri urge King Charles. ‘One strike to the heart. Be merciful and hasten its end.’

  But the king ignored him. ‘Loose the dogs!’ Charles shouted. ‘Loose the dogs! They must have some fresh blood to taste!’

  I turned my head away as the dogs ran in.

  To Melchior it was the order of nature, one animal taking the other as natural prey. To the king it was his right to decide how to dispense death.

  To the Count de Ferignay it was the opportunity to settle a score.

  The leopard was busy with its kill. Prince Henri and Gaspard Coligny had moved to one side. The king, fascinated by the blood pumping from the stricken animal, went close to kneel down and gaze spellbound at the death throes of the stag. Melchior stood, waiting and watching over Paladin.

  The Count de Ferignay made a signal to the man on horseback beside him. This man swiftly handed him a whip he had coiled at his belt.

  The count raised his arm and, directing his aim at Melchior, he flicked the whip. The length of leather unfurled with a crack and the lead tip at the end chipped a gouge from the skin on Melchior’s back. The boy grunted and, spinning round, he caught the end of the whip. He yanked it hard and Ferignay had to brace himself in his stirrups or he would have been unseated.

  I heard myself cry out, ‘No!’ and my heart stalled. To unseat a noble and send him crashing to the ground would be a step too far. Even the protection of the king might not save Melchior from the consequences of that insult.

  Melchior looked at Ferignay with disdain. He dropped his hand and released his end of the whip.

  The Count de Ferignay drew in the long leather lash and rolled it in his hands. There was a satisfied look upon his face that had nothing to do with the successful killing of the stag. My uneasy feeling about this man solidified into one of dislike.

  I realized that with the Count de Ferignay a grudge would be held until revenged.

  Chapter Seven

  THIS FEELING OF unease was with me as I returned to the palace.

  I dismounted from my horse and as the groom led it away I decided to go by the servants’ stairs to reach the accommodation I shared with Chantelle. I was walking along the upper corridor when I saw the prophet Nostradamus standing by a window, leaning on a silver walking stick. With his long robe and tall figure he was very distinctive. It was not surprising that I should recognize him. What surprised me was that he recognized me.

  ‘Mélisande,’ he said.

  He had the accent of his home town in Provence, and in pronouncing my name he gave an emphasis to the ‘s’ and the latter syllables which gave it an air of mystery I had never appreciated.

  ‘Something has distressed you,’ he said, looking at me acutely. ‘Yet it is not you, rather for your sister Chantelle that I—’

  ‘Sir,’ I interrupted him. ‘They say that you can see into the future. What do you see there for me?’

  He looked into my eyes. I felt he probed my very soul. ‘In addition to my three sons, I have been blessed with three daughters of my own.’ He spoke slowly. ‘Diane, the youngest, is no more than a baby. I also have one a little older, and another who is a little younger than you. So . . .’ He hesitated. ‘I see what any young girl might hope for. You will grow into your womanhood. Men will pay you compliments.’

  I shook my head. I was not interested in men saying sweet things to me. I had watched this kind of wooing many times, at the courts of England and in France. Such liars, men were. They would say anything in order to win over a pretty girl. Too lazy or untalented to do it themselves, often they came to my father and paid him to compose a line or two of verse, or make up a song that they might pass off as their own. They then used these to woo their fancy. Even if I believed such compliments signified true love, it was unlikely that I would receive many. My face was too plain, my body too angular, with none of the plump curves that men liked so much.

  Nostradamus smiled at me. ‘I see that my words do not please you. What would you have me say?’

  I recalled my sister’s words. ‘Things can be made to fit round any prophecy.’ Master Nostradamus had told me what he thou
ght a young girl would want to happen to her. ‘Do you say that which you think people want to hear?’ I demanded.

  ‘The young maid has a keen tongue.’

  I thought he was angry at my boldness, but he pondered on my words.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘There are occasions when I do in fact do that. I have to eat and pay for bread for my wife and children.’

  ‘Then you are not a truth teller.’

  ‘I am not a charlatan,’ he replied. ‘Life is hard and comforts are few, especially for those who have no income, or connection to a noble household. I take a lot of care when making up my almanacs. I spend many, many hours composing them to be ready for the year ahead. They give practical advice and simple effective remedies for a variety of ills, and also indicate the best times to sow and reap.’

  ‘But predictions of the weather and the tides and the harvest are practical things and can be done by any person versed in country lore.’

  He had been studying me as I spoke. Suddenly he raised up his head and shoulders and towered over me. I wilted under the intensity of his gaze. ‘I will tell you what I see. But beware, you have asked for the truth. It may be hard to bear.’

  I stepped back. Now I was unsure that I wanted to listen to what he had to say. But I could not stop him.

  ‘Grievous harm surrounds you, Mélisande. The minstrel is unable to defend his daughters. You will be called upon to be very brave. Your father will have great need of you. And another, also, will require your intercession. Yet . . .’ He paused. ‘I do not know if you are equal to the task.’

  At this, Nostradamus walked away from me, and I was left wondering. When he’d first spoken to me he had mentioned Chantelle’s name. If his concern was for my sister, then why did he say my father would need my help?

  I shook my head to clear my thoughts. In any case I didn’t have time to worry about these things for I had to hurry to our chamber to change my clothes. It had been arranged that in the early evening Chantelle and I were to be presented to the Count de Ferignay.