The Nostradamus Prophecy Read online

The evening sun had set and the pitch torches in their sconces lit the courtyards when my father came to escort us to the apartments of Armand’s lord and master.

  When he saw Chantelle arrayed in her best dress and with her hair braided, my father’s eyes filled with tears.

  ‘You are so like your mother,’ he said. He took from his purse a string of seed pearls and fastened them around my sister’s neck.

  Chantelle began to cry and flung her arms round my father, who embraced her. Then we all hugged one another. My father and I both held onto Chantelle. We knew that if a marriage was agreed tonight, there would be no long engagement. The wedding might take place very soon. The days when we would have free access to my sister were coming to an end.

  ‘Dry your eyes, my beautiful girls,’ Papa commanded us. ‘And let us go and inform the Count de Ferignay how fortunate his family is that it may be joined to mine.’

  Chapter Eight

  ‘YOUR LORDSHIP, MAY I present my daughters to you?’

  My sister and I waited at the entrance to the apartments of the Count de Ferignay, as my father walked forward to introduce us formally to Armand Vescault’s liege lord.

  Chantelle’s eyes searched the small salon before us and alighted on the one she sought. From his place at the window Armand fluttered his fingers in greeting. In these circumstances my sister did not dare acknowledge his salute, but a little smile came to her lips. I was more concerned with the count and the man standing closest to him. This was the man I had seen earlier at the hunt who had handed the count his whip with which to punish Melchior. By his rough features and size, and the dagger prominently displayed in his belt, I guessed him to be the count’s personal bodyguard.

  ‘Pay heed, Jauffré’ – the Count de Ferignay turned to speak to this man – ‘there are some things I wish you to deal with over the next few days.’ Ferignay then numbered a series of unimportant tasks.

  Anger prickled under my skin as I saw that the count was deliberately making my father wait while he ostentatiously dealt with minor matters, in order to emphasize his own superior position. But if my father was put out by such a display of bad manners he did not show it in any way.

  When he had come to the end of his list of instructions, the count stood up and surveyed my father haughtily. He too had changed from his hunting clothes and was now richly dressed in a long tunic of maroon velvet. I noticed that the cut of the cloth was skilfully done to cover his thick neck and heavy belly. His face displayed the ravages of years of overindulgence. A greedy man, I thought. Greedy. Proud. And from what I had witnessed today, cruel.

  Ferignay indicated for my father to step closer. ‘Now then,’ he drawled, ‘Monsieur the Minstrel.’

  My father said nothing, only inclined his head. Then he raised his eyes and looked at the Count de Ferignay.

  ‘Of course you are not any common jongleur,’ the count went on, ‘but the famous troubadour that the high-born Lady Beatrice de Bressay married some years ago in defiance of her parents, who cast her out because of it.’

  My father spoke quietly. ‘My wife was reconciled with her parents before she died, my lord.’

  ‘Is that so?’ A note of interest crept into the count’s voice. ‘And now that they are both dead with no other heir, then you must own the manor house and the lands of the Isle of Bressay?’

  My father nodded again, and, young that I was, I knew him well enough that I could tell by the tilt of his head and the set of his shoulders that the count would not deflect him from his purpose.

  ‘Good income from farming and fishing, so I’m told.’ Ferignay seemed keen for more information.

  ‘The people who work the land and fish the waters round the Isle of Bressay live to enjoy a just reward for their labours.’ My father’s reply was enigmatic, but Chantelle and I understood his meaning. We knew that our father was no feudal overlord who forbade his tenants hunting rights, and he did not inflict ruinous taxes.

  ‘So why would a man choose to be a wandering minstrel when he can live the life of a lord either at home or at court?’ Ferignay regarded my father with genuine curiosity.

  ‘When my wife died a few years ago the place held only sadness for me,’ my father answered. ‘I felt that my solitary mourning was upsetting my daughters so I sought employment in the royal courts of England and France, that we might make music together. Besides which I do not truly own the Isle of Bressay. It is kept in trust for my daughters. Half will go to Chantelle and half to Mélisande. They will inherit when they reach their majority or when they are wed, whichever comes first.’

  ‘A woman inherit in her own right!’ exclaimed Ferignay. ‘The law does not permit this.’

  ‘In our part of France we are faithful to the old ways of the Occitan,’ said my father.

  ‘You rebellious southerners,’ said Ferignay in a mocking voice. ‘Yet . . . I can see that there could be advantages in such an arrangement.’

  ‘As my lord has so wisely observed’ – my father quickly took the opportunity to further his case – ‘it means that, should my daughter Chantelle be wedded to your kinsman, Armand Vescault, then she brings with her half of the Isle of Bressay.’

  Ferignay considered this. He looked towards Armand, who walked quickly from the window and went down on one knee before him.

  ‘I would beg my lord to give his consent,’ Armand said humbly. ‘My service to you would in no way be impaired and to be married to this lady would make me very happy.’

  ‘Ah, a love match.’ Ferignay’s eyes glinted.

  I was watching him closely, and it seemed to me that for the merest second an emotion I hardly recognized burned in their depths. Was it malice?

  ‘Armand Vescault is not without substance.’ Ferignay addressed my father again. ‘As you have said, he is kin to me, though distantly, by a long-dead cousin, and I am attached to the house of Guise, and therefore to the blood royal.’

  The Count de Ferignay obviously wanted to impress upon my father that it would be a high honour for Chantelle to be allowed into his family. My father murmured a suitably neutral response, for it was common knowledge that the fortunes of the house of Guise were in flux. Some years ago it had been a daughter of the house of Guise, Mary, Queen of Scots, who had wed the eldest son of Queen Catherine de’ Medici while he was a boy. With this marriage the Guise family had hoped to rule France. But the boy prince had died, Mary had been sent back to Scotland, and Queen Catherine’s next son, Charles, was now King of France. This downturn of fortunes had left the Guise family frustrated in their ambitions.

  ‘My colours are royal blue with the lily of France incorporated,’ the Count de Ferignay continued. ‘You will have noted that when we rode in the hunt today.’

  Only that my father had given my sister and me both strict instructions to remain silent unless spoken to, or I would have asked the Count de Ferignay if he had not observed that it was us that the king had chosen to ride just behind him at the start of the chase.

  ‘And our shields are gilded to indicate the ties to the royal house of France.’

  ‘I am aware of this, my lord,’ my father said diplomatically. ‘My daughters and I know the colours of the royal houses, for we have travelled abroad. In fact I took Chantelle away for the last few months to test her love for Armand and ensure that theirs would be a true and lasting marriage. We have only just returned from England.’

  ‘Then you have seen their queen, Elizabeth. Is she as vain as they say?’

  My father hesitated and then said, ‘She would defy being described as pretty in the conventional sense, yet she has a noble bearing.’

  ‘More noble than our king?’ the count asked slyly.

  But my father had too much experience of court life to be snared in such a trap.

  ‘As you yourself have said, my lord, the nobility of France has the blood royal.’

  ‘And you aspire to have your daughter be a part of it?’

  I glanced at Chantelle. She was twisting her fin
gers and held her face down – as I should be doing. My father flashed me a look of reprimand and I dipped my head, but I soon raised it again. With the formalities out of the way some negotiation had begun and I found this too interesting to miss.

  ‘I desire my daughter’s happiness,’ said my father.

  ‘I repeat: Armand is no ordinary squire that you wish your daughter to marry,’ the Count de Ferignay replied.

  ‘In addition to her dowry my daughter is graceful and an accomplished musician.’

  ‘The queen regent, Catherine de’ Medici, and the royal ladies favour needlework.’

  ‘My daughter can embroider skilfully. The clothes she wears are decorated by her own hand. And’ – my father pressed his advantage – ‘I am given to believe that the queen rates musical talent highly. Chantelle is a sweet songstress and plays many instruments.’

  ‘Let us see her then.’ The count waved his hand imperiously.

  My father beckoned to us to come forward.

  The Count de Ferignay’s eyes flicked over me – and paused as our eyes met. I did not drop my gaze from his. He arched an eyebrow at my impudence and travelled on to Chantelle.

  And there he lingered. She did not see his avid look for she bent her head demurely when my father spoke her name. But I watched the count react to her presence.

  Chantelle was unaware of her effect upon men. Hers was a natural beauty that was all the more gracious for being unaffected by artifice. Her face and form were very lovely. Where I was flat-chested, her bosom swelled beneath her bodice. My hips were bony like a boy’s while hers were rounded. Her face was small and heart-shaped, mine was angular with high cheekbones and flat planes. My hair was often tangled, hers shone smooth like wet silk.

  ‘Most becoming,’ the Count de Ferignay purred. ‘Most becoming.’ He took her hand and raised it to his lips.

  My father and Chantelle smiled. They seemed untroubled at this scrutiny of my sister. I had a curdling in my mind, a scent of danger – there was an aura about this man that I did not like. Ferignay held my sister’s hand a fraction longer than was seemly. His kiss lingered upon her fingers.

  ‘Do we have your permission, sir, my lord?’ It was Armand who spoke.

  ‘What?’ Ferignay looked at him and then at my father. ‘Oh, yes, yes, permission is granted. I will allow this.’

  A calculating smile curved on his lips as he watched Armand and Chantelle embrace.

  ‘One thing,’ he called to us before we left his apartments. ‘I wish to be kept informed as to your plans. Do not forget this. I most specifically want to know in advance the date you set for your wedding.’

  Chapter Nine

  WHEN WE GOT back to our room Chantelle took me by both my hands and swung me round and round.

  ‘I am to be wed!’ she cried. ‘I am to be wed to Armand!’

  There were tears on her cheeks and on mine too for she was so wondrously joyful. At last she tired of spinning in a circle and she let me go and fell upon her bed.

  ‘I am so happy, Mélisande. You have no idea how happy I am. I am so very lucky to have found a man that I love and who loves me in return.’

  I was glad on her behalf for I wasn’t so ignorant as not to know that the majority of marriages were political arrangements. From high estate to the humblest, girls were used in alliances to broker power between men. It did sometimes happen that a couple could fall in love, but it was a thing of chance and often occurred after the wedding had taken place.

  Chantelle lay there exhausted with the emotion of the day and soon she fell into a light doze. There was plenty of time before dinner, when we might be called to entertain, so I decided to take advantage of my sister being asleep to be very bold and undertake an errand of my own.

  The palace of Cherboucy was built around several courtyards with the service staircases set in the corners. These spiralled down, connecting at their lowest level to the kitchens, and via long subterranean tunnels to the stable block. Taking a small dish from the medical box that we carried with us on our journeys, I opened our chamber door very quietly and slipped into the passageway.

  On the upper levels the corridors were quiet. Most of the nobles were resting after the hunt, or using the time to have their hair dressed and to choose what outfit they would wear that evening. A huge dinner was planned to celebrate the king returning safely and to quieten any alarm caused by the ominous forecasts of Nostradamus.

  Below ground level things were very different. Every inch of space was heaving with people. Porters were carrying sacks of onions and chestnuts and plates of fat truffles and mushrooms. The slaughtered animals from the hunt had been brought inside and butchers were busy jointing and quartering the carcasses. Cooks squabbled with them over the best cuts, while every grade of kitchen servant ran with dishes and all manner of kitchen utensils. In the mêlée the least of these, the scullions, were cuffed and kicked for any reason.

  As I paused to check my bearings, one of them, a child of no more than six or seven, came past me staggering under the weight of a pail of brock. He tripped, and the contents spilled out. He sat down among the mulch of leavings and began to sob. Quickly, before anyone saw, I scooped most of it back inside his bucket and handed it to him. He took it from me gratefully and continued in the direction of the kennels. I went past the open fires with the long spits roasting haunches of venison, hare and other game killed this morning.

  I found my way partly by instinct, and partly helped by my memory of yesterday when I’d watched the boy, Melchior, lead his leopard away after presenting it to King Charles. The king had commanded that a special place must be set aside to house the animal and the master of the king’s horse had been summoned to attend to this. I’d stood with my father and Chantelle by the wall in the palace garden and seen him indicate where Melchior was to go.

  Beyond the grain bins I came to the place I sought. Here was a wide passage sloping up to the main courtyard outside for carts and wagons to deliver to the storerooms on this level. To one side a half-sized timber door had been erected to fence off a section of the cellar.

  I raised myself on tiptoes and looked over the top of the door. A window set high up in the wall allowed enough light to show me the scene before me.

  In one corner was a large wheeled platform upon which stood a cage made of metal bars. Curled inside, on layers of straw, lay Paladin, the leopard. Outside the cage there was a small mattress unrolled on the floor. Upon it, half naked, sleeping, was the boy, Melchior.

  The door scraped as I opened it to go inside.

  Immediately the leopard stood up and regarded me, unblinking. I stepped inside and looked down at the boy. In repose his face was quite beautiful. Long lashes rested against his cheeks. His breath trembled the downy hairs on his upper lip. I kept very still and made no threatening movement, but the leopard was unhappy. Tail swishing, it began to pace the floor of the cage. I knew better than to touch its master. I knelt and put the dish I carried beside his bed. As I rose to leave, without opening his eyes, Melchior spoke quietly.

  ‘What is your business here?’

  I was so startled my voice squeaked, mouse-like, in reply.

  ‘I brought a salve.’

  He sat up then. His eyes, like the leopard’s, were unflinching.

  I returned his gaze with one equal to his own.

  He looked from my face to the dish on the floor.

  ‘What does it contain?’

  ‘Arnica, an ointment made from yellow flowers, with borage added. It would help to heal the wound. The one you sustained in the hunt today.’

  He reached behind his shoulder to try to touch the place where Ferignay’s whip had gouged a chunk from his flesh.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. He picked up the dish and gave me it. Then he presented his back to me. ‘Will you do this? I am unable to stretch so far.’

  I removed the lid and put my fingers in the ointment. Then I applied it to the raw flesh. My fingers touched his warm brown skin.


  The leopard made a small noise in its throat.

  ‘Be easy, Paladin,’ said Melchior. ‘She is a friend.’ He murmured some more phrases that I couldn’t comprehend.

  ‘What are you saying to the leopard?’

  He twisted round to face me. ‘I thought you knew my language. The other evening you sang my words very well.’

  I blushed. ‘I did not mean to eavesdrop. I was in the castle garden and heard you speak, and the music came into my head.’ I hesitated. ‘It’s difficult to explain. When that happens I cannot ignore it.’

  ‘I understand.’

  He said this so very clearly and with such assurance it made me believe that he did actually understand.

  He turned away from me again and I looked at the pattern on the skin of his back, the scrolls and symbols of the ancients. I searched the rings and ellipses and it seemed to me that among them there was a tribute to the prey. The stag. Honour paid to the animal hunted that we might eat to live. And the hunter too. The leopard. These circles were its spots, the shapes made by the finger of God when he breathed life into the beast.

  Melchior didn’t say anything but the silence between us was not uncomfortable. I felt that he was waiting.

  But why? For me to speak?

  Or to act?

  I reached out. With the tip of my index finger I traced the outline of the superior pattern. And as I did so it began to reveal itself to me. It was a symbol to be read on more than one level, using more than one sense.

  Like my music.

  Ah! That was why Melchior did understand.

  Under my touch the shapes shimmered in my mind. The swirling loops leading me in, to the core of the labyrinth; marking a pattern, as the stars do in the skies above our heads, holding their course since the world’s beginning.

  ‘It is life,’ I whispered.

  He reached back and put his hand over mine and drew my own hand flat, deeper into the complex rhythm of the lines, into the vortex.

  I closed my eyes.

  Under my touch I felt his life-blood thrum.