The Nostradamus Prophecy

by Theresa Breslin

  Later, as the sun came up, I could see rolling along behind us the leopard’s cage on its wheeled platform.

  We’d arranged that as soon as there was a stop Melchior would come and give me my bag and I would slip away. The court was moving north-west to Toulouse. That was also the road to the Isle of Bressay.

  The Isle of Bressay. My home. The place where my father had intended we should go.

  But that was not the direction I was going to take. I’d had all night to think on my situation. By morning I had made my decision. When my chance came to leave I would head a different way. I knew where I needed to go and to whom I needed to speak. I would seek out the person who might be able to tell me more about my sister’s death, and who might aid me in clearing our family name and rescuing my father. The one whose word Queen Catherine de’ Medici would believe.

  PART TWO

  THE HOUSE OF NOSTRADAMUS

  Chapter Twenty-one

  IT WAS SPRING market day when I arrived at the town of Salon in Provence.

  With so many people on the road I was able to mingle easily with the folk going there to sell their goods. I joined up with some farmers and their wives and servants, who were herding livestock and carrying produce in baskets and handcarts. There was a holiday atmosphere with this group, and their banter, combined with the cackling of the geese and bleating of the goats, made the last mile or so a very pleasant walk. Although I’d been sleeping in barns and under hedgerows since parting company with Melchior some weeks ago, I’d taken care with my appearance, shaking out my clothes each morning and washing my face and hands. Troubadours and jongleurs were not unusual on market days and I guessed that one more wandering musician would attract no special attention from the town guards.

  Why is it that certain places, like people, make an instant impression on you? My father used to say that he could tell the character of the citizens by the smell of a city as he rode through the gates. Chantelle always looked into people’s faces. She claimed it was in their eyes that she saw a person’s true worth. With me it was sound. My ear was sensitive to all things, both natural and man-made. My mood was always affected by my surroundings. The royal court had made me uncomfortable. Both the queen regent, Catherine de’ Medici, and King Charles were surrounded by self-seeking courtiers, their words slithering with deceit. I was most content in the countryside, where birds and animals reign supreme. Yet I loved the clamour of cities: the rowdy bawling of the street sellers, the quips of the messenger boys, the laughter of women. Therefore I should have been happier as I approached the walls of this bustling town.

  But I was not.

  The crowd had become denser and in the press of people were some rough-looking individuals: armed mercenaries, women with painted faces, men in the garb of beggars who began to limp when within sight of the soldiers guarding the gates. Their language was bad, even in the presence of children, and I considered turning away. Once inside the city I would have to fend for myself without the protection of the farmers. Only my hope of justice for Chantelle and freeing my imprisoned father made me continue and I allowed myself to be carried on with the rest up to the outer gate.

  Above it, on the rampart, a man stood, surveying the people as they passed below. He was older than me, more than three times my age, I reckoned, with a lightly tanned face and hair the colour of sun-bleached wheat. His cloak was thrown back to show a black surcoat richly embroidered in red and he had taken up a stance there, where his keen glance could inspect faces in the crowd. By his side was the sergeant at arms, who was hurrying to and fro at this man’s bidding. I looked about and saw what was happening. The man – he must be some noble or lord – would point to a person he considered unsuitable and the sergeant would run to command his soldiers to seize the unfortunate, who would be taken off protesting loudly.

  ‘It’s the Lord Thierry.’ The farmer ambling along beside me had noticed my interest in what was happening. ‘Salon falls under his fiefdom and he’s very strict about who goes in and out of his towns.’

  As the nobleman’s gaze roved over the crowd my heart began to beat more quickly. I did not know this Lord Thierry but that was not to say he had not seen me at Cherboucy. His rigorous weeding out of potential troublemakers might be something he did every market day. But supposing the Count de Ferignay had sent letters all around for law-makers to be on the lookout for me? In that case, I reasoned, they should be seeking a girl. Dressed as I was, with my travelling cloak around me and my cap set low across my brow, this man had no cause to pick me out.

  I began to hum a tune to calm myself. A young minstrel carrying a mandolin should not seem out of place here. I was almost at the gate. It would be foolish to turn back now, would only serve to attract attention to myself. I was almost beneath him when his glance fell upon me.

  Our eyes met.

  I should have looked down. But I felt compelled to return his imperious look with one of my own. Later I regretted my brashness; heard my father’s voice:

  ‘Mélisande, you are too forward. Your look is impertinent. Be careful, such manners will bring misfortune to your door.’

  Pushed forward by those behind me, I went under the arch and through to the other side. There. It was over. I was safely inside the town, unchallenged.

  I glanced back.

  The Lord Thierry had walked to the city side of the rampart and was watching me. I gulped, and this time I did look away at once. There was a market stall in the vicinity. I sauntered over, trying not to appear in too much of a rush. I was sure the nobleman’s eyes were on me yet. I selected a ripe apple and promised the young girl tending the stall that I’d make her the heroine of my next ballad if she gave it to me for free. She blushed and dipped her head, then giggled and nodded and told me her name. I hoped the noble lord on the rampart was seeing a carefree youth engaging in some innocent flirting. I recalled one of the remarks that I’d heard men at court say to ladies and exchanged another word with the apple seller. Then I bit into the fruit and bade her farewell. How I longed to turn round to see if Lord Thierry still held me in his sight, but I forced myself to stroll on, slowly, slowly, past a shop front displaying wool and yarn, then down a narrow street and into a little square.

  I waited. There was no sign of pursuit. He had not ordered his sergeant to send soldiers after me. I exited the square. Now that I was away from the main passageways I felt safer. But I had no idea where I was. There was no one about to ask directions – most likely everyone was at the market in the town centre. I walked on. The streets I was in were meaner, the houses more shabby. I was by the canal in an area which even I in my youthful innocence knew was unsafe. I decided to turn back, go towards the town centre and ask someone the way. I’d just begun to do this when in front of me two young men lurched out of a tavern. The nearest one tottered. His companion clutched at him, tripped, and both of them fell against me.

  ‘Ho! Who have we here?’ The larger one pushed his wine-flushed face into mine.

  I stepped past them, but as I did so, the large man reached out and grabbed my shoulder. To protect my mandolin I swivelled it quickly to the front of my body.

  ‘A merry minstrel,’ said the other man, in a mocking voice. He had a more closed and cunning look to him.

  ‘I am that, sir.’ My years at court had taught me that, as far as possible, it was best to placate those who had drunk much.

  ‘Play us a tune,’ said the large man.

  ‘Perhaps another time. I have an appointment elsewhere.’ I laughed and tried to ease myself away from them.

  He scowled at my reply. ‘Do you know who I am?’

  I shook my head, trying to keep a distance from them both. I was not so sure that my disguise would be effective if they came close enough to examine me further and touch me again. And if they learned I was a girl and unprotected, they might take more cruel advantage of me than some roistering badinage.

  The large man loomed above me. ‘I am the Duke of Marcy and I command you to pla
y a tune,’ he slurred. Now his face was flushed, not just with drink, but with temper at being thwarted.

  ‘Very well, good sir.’ I made a low bow. ‘I will certainly do as you wish.’

  I took the mandolin from its chamois leather bag and played a song, a plain but popular melody that they might catch the rhythm and join in. The cunning one started to stamp his feet and snap his fingers.

  ‘I like that,’ he cried out.

  Sensing his mood, I moved on then to an older ballad, a more vigorous tune. He began to dance, capering about in the middle of the street. I smiled and tapped my own feet to encourage him. If I could get them both occupied dancing then I might manage to escape.

  Some people from the tavern had come to the door and were clapping and shouting.

  The music began to have an effect on the larger one, the Duke of Marcy. ‘Let’s dance!’ he shouted. ‘Let us all dance!’

  I needed to choose my moment. I’d already marked out a nearby alley where I might go. ‘This is thirsty work,’ I called to the nearest person.

  ‘A drink!’ he responded. ‘A drink for the minstrel boy!’

  The Duke of Marcy’s companion looked at him slyly. ‘A drink for us all!’ he said. He skipped over and slapped the duke on his back.

  ‘Yes. Yes. A drink for all here!’ the duke agreed without quibble. ‘Tell the tavern master I will pay.’

  ‘By squandering the money your father gives you.’ A cold voice cut into the merriment.

  My hands stilled on the mandolin. I turned. Behind me was a man in a black and red surcoat. It was the nobleman from the ramparts.

  My heart twanged and vibrated like a plucked string.

  ‘It’s Lord Thierry.’ A murmur went through the onlookers.

  Lord Thierry looked at me appraisingly. ‘You have more skill than most itinerant musicians.’

  His glance was piercing. It took in my sandals, my clothes, and then the mandolin. As his gaze returned to my face I pulled the collar of my cloak higher. My throat was constricted in fear. I shrugged and tipped my finger to my forehead to acknowledge his compliment.

  ‘I will not be told what to do by an upstart lordling,’ the Duke of Marcy proclaimed. ‘Innkeeper!’ he bellowed. ‘Bring me a jug of wine.’

  ‘This gathering should disperse,’ Lord Thierry said in a firm voice. ‘There has already been too much wine taken.’

  ‘I will decide when this dancing is finished and how much I will drink,’ the duke said angrily.

  ‘It is my duty to keep the peace in this town,’ Lord Thierry retorted. ‘And keep it I will.’

  ‘And allow us no fun or pleasure with your dour Huguenot ways,’ snarled the duke.

  A hiss went round the company in the street. Lord Thierry frowned in irritation. ‘This has nothing to do with religion. It is to do with protecting property and safeguarding citizens.’

  ‘Sire’ – the Duke of Marcy’s wily friend caught at his arm – ‘we can find other sport elsewhere.’

  ‘Leave off, Bertrand.’ The duke shrugged his friend away.

  The owner of the wine shop appeared with a fresh jug of wine. The Duke of Marcy snatched it from him and drank straight from the jug.

  The Lord Thierry spoke to the innkeeper. ‘You sell these young men more drink than is good for them. You know it is not allowed under the city rules.’

  ‘It’s market day, my lord.’ The innkeeper spread his hands. ‘I mean no ill.’

  ‘You mean to make a tidy profit.’ Lord Thierry lifted a flagon that someone had set down upon a windowsill. He took some wine into his mouth then he spat it onto the street. ‘This has been watered once yet is twice the price, I’ll warrant.’

  The innkeeper looked nervously at his customers, who had overheard this exchange, and he hurried into his shop. The men outside began to tell each other about how they had been cheated. Now anyone could see that trouble was not far away. I prepared to go, and bent to pick up the leather bag that held my mandolin.

  But the Lord Thierry, seeing my movement, glanced at me and said, ‘I would speak with you more.’

  I left the bag where it was and inclined my head. He must not think I’d anything to hide.

  ‘You are a talented minstrel. I would like you to come to my castle at Valbonnes. I could give you employment there—’

  He was interrupted by the crashing sound of breaking crockery. The innkeeper came from his shop, his face bleeding. From inside came the sound of a bench being overturned and a woman began to scream.

  The face of the Duke of Marcy contorted in fury. He fumbled his sword from his scabbard. ‘You have ruined my afternoon. I will call you to account for it.’

  Lord Thierry drew his own sword, and at the same time took a whistle that hung from his neck and blew upon it. The people in the street scattered and I went with them.

  I jumped into a doorway at the sound of boots on cobblestones. Hopefully it was the sergeant-at-arms and some of the guards. I slid along against the wall of the alley and, once clear, I ran and ran until I was out of breath. Now I must find the house I sought and get shelter as soon as I could.

  On the corner opposite was an old woman street pedlar. I asked her the way. She immediately knew where and whom I was looking for.

  ‘Why would you go there?’ She regarded me speculatively.

  ‘A remedy,’ I replied, with the first reason I could think of. ‘I have an ailment.’

  ‘Look’ – she indicated her tray of goods – ‘I have remedies of my own, very powerful potions. I’ve lavender to aid sleep, chamomile to soothe, rosemary, parsley.’

  ‘I have no money,’ I answered her.

  ‘These are the best of cures and worth more than gold, but I would let you have some for a small coin.’

  I knew these herbs – the scent of them perfumed the air of the Languedoc and Provence, brightening the bushes and fields and mountain meadows where they grew. ‘I know they are good for all manner of ills. I am not unwell like that.’ I hesitated. Better to give her another reason for going there. ‘I need some advice on a private matter.’

  ‘No, no.’ She shook her head. ‘You don’t need to go there, young man.’ She tried to take my hand. ‘Let me look at your palm.’ As she did this she glanced up and down the street to ensure we were unobserved. Officially, fortune-telling was banned by the Church. ‘I can foretell the future as good as any.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I must speak with him.’ I had only two coins left in my purse and in desperation I gave her them both.

  ‘The place you seek is in the middle of the town,’ she told me, ‘within sight of the Château Emperi, where the Lord Thierry takes residence when he visits Salon.’

  She led me through the winding alleys and lanes until we came out close to the mound where the château towered above us.

  ‘There.’ She pointed. ‘That is the house.’

  I’d imagined it would be very grand but, although taller than the houses round about, it was very plain to look at.

  ‘He’s often seen up there on his roof terrace. By night, especially when the moon is full. And the noises one hears . . .’

  ‘What kind of noises?’

  ‘I don’t know, creaking and moaning, souls in torment.’ She made the sign of the cross on her forehead and across her breast. ‘Be careful,’ she warned me.

  But I was not very afraid. I had seen death. Witnessed foul murder. My sister’s broken body smashed on the cobblestones of the courtyard of the palace. And I needed to know more.

  So I went forward to the door of the house of the prophet, Nostradamus.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  I LIFTED THE heavy knocker and let it fall.

  Inside I could hear a child howling. A woman opened the door. She had the worn look of a woman who cared for many children. Her face was lined, her apron crumpled, and she held a little one in her arms.

  ‘I’ve come to see the prophet Nostradamus—’ I began.

  ‘My husband is too tired to see
anyone else today,’ she said and shut the door in my face.

  I knocked again but although I could hear those inside moving about, no one came to the door.

  I looked up at the building. There was a light burning in the room at the top. If I cried out, would he hear my voice? I glanced around me. The pedlar woman had gone away and the street was deserted, but for how long? I already knew that this was a well-patrolled town. I could not risk making a disturbance else the guards would come to investigate. There was a lane at the side of the house. I went down it and came out at the back. The top half of the kitchen door was open and I could hear the child squalling louder than ever. The woman was holding this girl child and walking up and down trying to get her to cease crying. She glowered when she saw me.

  ‘Be off with you. You’ve no right to come round here and annoy me.’

  ‘Please,’ I begged her. ‘I need to speak to Nostradamus, if only for a moment.’

  ‘That’s what everyone says. “Only for a moment.”’ She placed the child on her hip and turned to face me. ‘But it’s never that amount of time. People always want more, and then more. They need to know this thing. They need to know another thing. And they take and take and take from him, until he is drained. And they become angry if he doesn’t tell them that which they wish to hear.’

  ‘I don’t want him to prophesy anything,’ I said.

  ‘Then what do you want?’

  ‘He made a prophecy. I did not realize at the time that it was about my sister, and it came true—’ I broke off. I thought I might break down if I spoke about the fate that had befallen Chantelle.

  ‘So you’ve come to complain?’

  ‘No, not that. I only want to understand.’

  ‘There is no understanding of it. That’s what people do not appreciate. Even he does not understand the half of it,’ the woman said wearily. She began to close the door.