The Nostradamus Prophecy

by Theresa Breslin

  I recalled how King Charles had revelled in seeing the leopard rip the throat from the living stag.

  ‘Who knows?’ my father went on. ‘Certainly we must hasten Chantelle’s marriage. Allied to Ferignay she will have protection and after the ceremony is over you and I will leave for the Isle of Bressay.’

  Why did we need to leave? What had we to fear? We had done nothing wrong.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THERE WAS WIDESPREAD reaction to this act of savagery.

  The King of Spain, who supported the Catholic cause, applauded France for dealing swiftly and decisively with heretics. An angry but formally polite letter arrived from Queen Jeanne of Navarre, enquiring, if it was the case that Huguenots enjoyed the full protection of the laws of France, why had the prisoners been denied a trial?

  To these royal missives Catherine de’ Medici was supposed to have replied, ‘Both Catholic and Protestant try my patience every day.’

  Claiming ill health, King Charles withdrew to his rooms. It was believed that this was a pretext to avoid receiving the flood of messages either supporting or condemning his actions. But these political manoeuvrings did not deter our plans for Chantelle’s marriage.

  ‘Papa has permitted that I may walk with Armand to celebrate our official betrothal,’ Chantelle told me one afternoon, ‘but I must not go alone. You are to accompany me as chaperone.’

  We clung to each other and giggled. Me! A chaperone!

  I pretended to take my duties very seriously. ‘You must cover your head with a veil,’ I instructed her. ‘And look at your dress! It is quite immodest. Who do you think you are? The Duchess Marie-Christine?’

  Chantelle pulled her neckline higher to conceal the v of her cleavage.

  ‘That’s better,’ I informed her primly. I held out my arm. ‘Now we may go forth and meet your suitor.’

  Armand was standing under one of the arches of the courtyard. He rushed forward when he saw us approach.

  ‘There is a place I wish to take you, Chantelle.’ He made a small bow to me. ‘If it is permitted by your sister chaperone?’

  I nodded my head, thoroughly enjoying this new-found power.

  Armand led us through the main courtyard past the stable blocks. By the open door of a horse stall stood an elderly man. It was the prophet Nostradamus. He was waiting while his horse was being strapped with saddlebags. They were stuffed with books and papers, but nothing much in the way of rich clothes or jewellery. For a man who commanded the respect of Catherine de’ Medici, the Queen Regent of France, he travelled very plainly.

  ‘Mélisande,’ he said.

  I stopped. Armand and Chantelle walked on as if they had not heard. I glanced after them. My duty was to be beside them. I should not loiter, yet . . .

  I looked at the prophet.

  ‘I wondered,’ he said, ‘if you would mind telling me how old you are?’

  ‘I am in my thirteenth year, sir,’ I replied.

  ‘And the date and month of your birth?’

  ‘The fifteenth day of January.’

  ‘Could that be it?’ He murmured these words so low I hardly heard them. Then he went on, speaking more loudly, ‘Five times three is fifteen, and January marks the beginning of the year, month number one.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, for I could not disagree with his statement, but I felt awkward standing there so I asked him, ‘You are leaving?’

  ‘The king and the queen regent have graciously given me leave to return to my home in Salon,’ he told me.

  Now I was anxious to quit his presence. Standing in the bright spring sunlight, his predictions and the unease that they had caused me seemed remote. Besides which, Chantelle and Armand were now almost out of sight and I did not know where Armand was leading us.

  ‘I will return to my home in Salon,’ he repeated. ‘Salon, which is in Provence.’

  ‘I wish you a safe journey, sir,’ I said, and ran to catch up with my sister and her betrothed.

  They had gone into a smaller, less-used cobbled square. We crossed to the furthest tower and entered by a wooden door. Up and up the spiral stair we followed Armand until finally, on the top floor, he opened the door with a flourish.

  ‘I approached the master of the king’s household and he has allowed us these rooms as our own apartments.’

  ‘It seems so selfish to think of our wedding when the king is sick,’ said Chantelle.

  ‘His doctors have diagnosed marsh fever, nothing more,’ Armand told us. ‘Although my lord Ferignay says the Medici lineage has polluted the royal blood of France. He blames the queen regent for the constant bad health of the king and his younger brothers.’

  No one remarked on the fact that King Charles’s sister, the Princess Margot, enjoyed good health. It seemed to me that Catherine de’ Medici was blamed for the ill luck that beset the family but received no credit for any good. But that afternoon the health of the King of France was of little concern to us. We were so taken up with exploring the two rooms that would become Armand and Chantelle’s first home. The inner chamber was very small, but sufficient, as Armand pointed out, to hold a bed.

  ‘I have ordered a wool mattress and I’ll have a carpenter make a bed platform over the next few days.’

  Chantelle dipped her head and blushed. I walked to the window and glanced down. It was dizzyingly high. Below was the stableyard where the tiny figures of the farriers and the grooms walked around tending to the horses.

  ‘I will be the maiden in the tower,’ said Chantelle dreamily, coming to look out of the window.

  ‘And I will be your prince,’ murmured Armand, his mouth in her hair.

  I withdrew quietly to the outer room and left them alone. This was not the correct behaviour for a chaperone but they would be married shortly and I knew that Armand was utterly trustworthy.

  The window of this room was much larger. From here I could see the double-walled city of Carcassonne with its towers and crenellated battlements. Between it and us the countryside of the Languedoc spread out, forest, field and river. To my mind my sister was a princess, and it was fitting that she should be wedded here in this land of our mother, one of an independent people who shared a noble history. I would write them a ballad, I decided, as a wedding gift. It would tell of the romance of Armand and Chantelle and would be in the form of the tenson, which is sung by two people, each taking an alternate verse.

  I imagined them here, sitting by the window, Chantelle strumming her lute and singing in her beautiful melodious voice, and he gazing at her, his eyes and heart full of love. The words presented themselves and they were bound in with the view before me, part of nature and its bounty, wine and herbs, and the song of the birds like the song of my sister’s name.

  Armand would speak first, and my sister would reply.

  ‘O lady in your bower,

  what do you see

  from thy tower

  as you gaze longingly?’

  ‘I see a fine chevalier

  leaving the city rampart

  to come riding here

  and make claim upon my heart.’

  Almost of their own accord my fingers tapped on the windowsill. I wanted to write immediately, while the song was fresh in my mind. I stirred myself, impatient to be away. I needed an instrument, something to trap the tune before I lost it in my head. Crossing the room, I rapped on the door and opened it and they were standing there by the window entwined in each other’s arms.

  Armand leaped away.

  I laughed to see this handsome chevalier so put out by the appearance of a young girl.

  Chantelle’s face was suffused with love.

  When I think of my sister now, this is the image that I try to bring to my mind – not the other starker memory I have. That day is the one I want to remember, when she was safe and happy in the arms of her lover.

  Chapter Fifteen

  FOR THE NEXT week or so, while Papa formalized the marriage contract and arranged the ceremony, Chantelle and I b
usied ourselves furnishing her love nest.

  I purchased some lengths of muslin and together we sewed curtains for the windows of her tower rooms. She was gifted a table and two chairs by the Count de Ferignay; Armand’s friends bought them a small stove. My father gave an oak chest and paid for rush matting to be laid and all was ready on the morning of Chantelle’s wedding day.

  Chantelle wanted to come from her tower to be married. Although we had begged him to allow us both to spend the eve of her wedding there, my father in his strictness refused. It meant that Chantelle and I had to rise very early on her wedding day and transport her dress and all our other accoutrements from our room in the main part of the palace. With our travelling cloaks wrapped round on top of our night shifts, we giggled together as we hurried back and forth across the courtyards. On one of these journeys I broke away and ran to the garden to pick some of the artema flowers that grew there. This was Chantelle’s love token and I meant to weave them into her hair ribbons.

  My new friend, the little kitchen scullion, brought us a shovelful of hot coals for the stove, where we heated some water. We removed our night shifts, shivering in the coolness. Then we washed each other before getting ready. Chantelle slipped her wedding gown over her head and I plaited the hair on her crown into many small braids, tying these with white ribbons and interlacing them with the pink wild flowers. We arranged the mass of her shining dark hair across her shoulders, where it curled in tendrils on the delicate embroidery of her dress.

  ‘You look so beautiful it makes my heart ache,’ I told her.

  Chantelle went into the bedchamber and strewed the remainder of the flowers on her marriage bed. Then she opened up the window. The muslin cloth wafted in the breeze that blew in from the plains. Chantelle hugged me tightly.

  ‘We will not be separated,’ she vowed. ‘You will come and visit me often as I travel with the court. I will have Armand, my husband, command my father to allow it.’

  We both laughed at this – how she might outrank my father in her new role as the wife of a vassal to a high lord. She promised that as soon as she was pregnant she would come to the Isle of Bressay and spend her confinement with me. We held hands together and wandered back into the outer room.

  The Count de Ferignay stood there. His bodyguard, Jauffré, was by the outer door.

  ‘Why, sir,’ Chantelle said in surprise, ‘the arrangement is that my father is going to escort me to my marriage. Besides which, you are an hour too early for the ceremony.’

  ‘I did not come here to escort you to your wedding, girl. I came to claim my right – Droit de Seigneur.’

  ‘What?’ Chantelle had turned pale.

  ‘I would have had you last night except your tiresome father always ensures that your room door is well bolted.’

  ‘I do not understand.’ Chantelle looked desperately towards the door, where Jauffré stood with a leer upon his face.

  ‘I think you do,’ the count replied. ‘Your sister here might be more uncultured but you have enough experience of the world to know that it is the right of a lord to claim his vassal’s wife on the eve of the wedding.’

  ‘Sir, you are saying this to tease me.’ Chantelle’s voice now sounded very scared.

  ‘No, I am not. Although I think you mean to excite my passion by your pretence of innocence.’

  ‘I do not!’ Chantelle cried out. And it was this cry that roused me to action as I realized this man meant to harm my sister in the most shameful way.

  ‘I will go and fetch my father,’ I said. I ran towards the door, but Jauffré came into the room and grabbed me roughly by my wrists.

  ‘Be sensible,’ Count de Ferignay told my sister. ‘That way you will come to no harm.’

  ‘I will not submit to you!’ Chantelle told him.

  ‘You will,’ said the count.

  ‘She will not!’ Armand Vescault elbowed Jauffré aside and entered the room.

  ‘Armand!’ Chantelle cried out and made to go to him.

  The Count de Ferignay seized her by the arm, tearing her dress as he did so. He shoved her violently into the corner of the room and pulled his sword from its scabbard. Armand was unarmed yet he did not hesitate. He ran in front of Chantelle to protect her.

  ‘You must not do this,’ he said to Ferignay. ‘There are plenty of ladies at court who would consider it an honour to please you. Leave me and my bride alone, I beg you.’

  ‘Get out of my way!’ snarled the count. ‘I will not be ordered about by a vassal of the lowest kind.’

  Jauffré had moved forward to protect his master and I saw my chance to slip away to get help. I ran again for the door. But he was too quick for me and caught me, dragging me by my hair.

  I shrieked and so did Chantelle. Armand launched himself at Ferignay and, being faster and stronger, managed to wrest the sword from the older man before he could raise it to strike. Armand flung the sword down and grappled with the count.

  Jauffré threw me into a chair with such force that both it and I tumbled backwards and I lay on the floor, half stunned.

  ‘You must leave off!’ Armand was shouting. ‘The minstrel is favoured by the king. He will not allow this desecration of his daughter!’

  ‘Kill him!’ Ferignay shouted at Jauffré. ‘Kill him. Now!’

  And Jauffré took his dagger from his belt and plunged it hilt-deep in Armand’s back.

  Armand staggered forward, clutching the count around his waist. But he had no strength in him and the count pushed him away quite easily.

  There was blood. A lot of blood, spreading down the back of Armand’s white shirt. He fell on his face and still the blood came. It was on Armand’s face, coming from his mouth.

  ‘You have killed him,’ Chantelle wailed, and she ran and knelt and lifted up Armand’s head and tried to hold him to her. A great pool of her lover’s blood seeped into Chantelle’s white wedding dress, staining it crimson.

  ‘That was my wish,’ the count stated. He smoothed his clothes and addressed Chantelle. ‘And now I will fulfil my first intention.’

  ‘Armand is dead.’ Chantelle lifted her head and gazed at me. ‘Armand is dead. Mélisande, what am I to do?’

  ‘I have told you what you must do.’ The count removed his scabbard and laid it down upon the table. He was shaken, but seemed more determined now to continue his wicked purpose.

  Chantelle stared at him. She seemed to come to herself. She looked to Armand again and at the count.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I see what I must do. If you would grant me a moment with my sister?’

  I did not understand what Chantelle was saying. My head ached so much I could not stand.

  Chantelle came to me. She bent and kissed my face. ‘Adieu, dearest Mélisande,’ she whispered. She trailed her fingers across my cheek. ‘Farewell, sweet sister.’

  I raised my head and watched Chantelle walk calmly into the bedchamber. She could not mean to give herself to this fiend. I knew my sister better than anyone alive. We talked and shared secrets. She was both my sister and good friend, and when our mother had gone, she’d been like a kind mother to me. Her heart was true. Although not as rash and foolhardy as me, she had her own quiet courage. What was she thinking of? There was no weapon in that room with which she could defend herself. No table or chairs. There was nothing there; only the bed and the window.

  The window.

  ‘Chantelle!’ I screamed. ‘Chantelle!’

  Chapter Sixteen

  I CRAWLED ON my knees into the bedchamber.

  The room was empty. The muslin curtain billowed at the open window. I stumbled over and looked down. Far below me the body of my sister lay broken on the cobblestones. She can’t have screamed as she fell for there was no one there beside her. But there was someone screaming. I realized it was me. I put my fist in my mouth and bit down on my knuckles with my teeth.

  A footstep in the room.

  I whirled round. The Count de Ferignay was behind me. For the briefest moment I b
elieved he was going to tip me out of the window, but then he swivelled abruptly and left. I heard him call to his bodyguard.

  ‘Bring the body of that young fool and get out of here before that hellcat rouses the whole palace.’

  I turned to the window and swayed against the casement. Now people were gathering round and looking upwards. I began to rock myself backwards and forwards. ‘Chantelle, Chantelle,’ I moaned. Then I saw what I too must do. I grasped each side of the window frame, and began to climb through. I would have flung myself after her, except someone caught at me. I fought hard. I bit and scratched and kicked the man who’d stopped me, the one I thought was her murderer, only to find that it was my father who had captured me in his arms.

  ‘Mélisande.’ He held me fast until I quietened down. ‘A scullion boy came battering at my door and told me to come here as fast as I could. What has happened? Where is Chantelle?’

  I did not answer him; only fell to weeping and pointing at the window. A look of horror came on his face. He set me to one side and peered out. He turned back, his face ashen. He shook and trembled and could not speak. ‘What happened?’ he whispered. ‘There was an accident?’

  ‘No accident,’ I stuttered. ‘No accident. Chantelle is dead by the hand of the Count de Ferignay. He came here to claim his right over her body as Armand’s Seigneur. Armand died trying to defend her and was stabbed to death on Ferignay’s command by his henchman. And when this happened Chantelle cast herself from the window. Murder!’ I screeched and I beat my fists against my father’s chest. ‘Murder!’

  My father put his arm around my shoulder and led me out of the room. We went down the spiral staircase, the same one Chantelle and I had so happily tripped up only an hour before. We came out into the courtyard and I saw the little scullion’s terrified face among the crowd. The people parted to let us through.