Judith Merkle Riley

by The Master of All Desires

  “She’s fainting, the demoiselle is fainting!” he cried, turning and scooping her up. “Quickly, where is a doctor?”

  “No—no—don’t touch me—my arm, my hand—” she cried, shaking all over. “Water, for God’s sake, water!” But then she looked up and saw Nicolas. “You! You’ve been following me again. But I saw you—you knocked his hand away—”

  “You’re burned—you’ve lost your mind—quickly—we must have a doctor—” They were inside the gates now, and swarms of people were running up.

  “You are acquainted with the demoiselle?”

  “Her cousin is my best friend—” A tiny exaggeration, justified by circumstances.

  But Sibille was crying over and over, “It’s burning—it’s burning! Oh, bring water! Help!” Someone splashed water onto the hand she clutched to her, wetting them both, but not stopping the terrible burning as skin and flesh dissolved. “It still burns, Jesus, it’s burning me away!” There were cries and the sound of footsteps as servants ran into the vast old building to find aid. Then there was a tap-tap-tapping of a malacca cane, but the sound was lost in the general commotion.

  “We have to cut away the sleeve, Demoiselle, here, into the bucket, yes, the whole arm—” Nicolas found himself kneeling on the hard stones of the courtyard, supporting in his arms the body of his Divinity as an old man in a doctor’s gown dipped her burned arm in a bucket of water mixed with wood ash to neutralize and wash away the searing acid. He could feel Sibille’s pulse, he could feel her breath, which came in quick gasps, and he could feel her tremble.

  “He was aiming at my face—my eyes—”

  “You are lucky,” the doctor was saying. “Léon, more water, and stir in plenty of wood ash—we have to dissolve every trace away or it will burn deeper. Lucky that he missed, lucky that I know that water alone will not stop oil of vitriol’s evil work.”

  “We have the man, Demoiselle,” said one of the Swiss. “This fellow here saved you.”

  “Ah, yes,” said the old doctor, looking directly at Nicolas. He had a beard almost like Nicolas’s father, but somehow it didn’t quite look the same. The eyes above it, that was the difference, perhaps—they were shrewd with understanding.

  “Sun in Leo,” he said. “You’ll do nicely.”

  “Wh–what do you mean? A fiend has tried to throw oil of vitriol on the demoiselle, and you are telling me my birth sign?”

  “Young man, I am Michel de Nostredame.”

  “The astrologer?” Nicolas could only gape. Did that mean that Sibille had not been on an assignation, but consulting a fortune-teller? How terribly weak-minded. A flush of relief and disappointment—for the famous double duel had blown away like smoke—washed right through him. But Maistre Nostredame was busy saying:

  “—and you really should not walk home unescorted after a dreadful shock like this. Have this young man take you home, and greet your aunt for me. Remember, water and wood ash, should the burning recur, and then a poultice of honey and eggs, to make the scarring less—keep it very clean, the skin is gone—but even so you are fortunate—the hand and arm are saved—”

  But now the archers had come to remove the attacker, and the crowd departed to follow the better spectacle, the howling prisoner who was proclaiming his innocence. “The effrontery of that criminal,” Nicolas heard one of them say.

  “Ha! What fool hired a drunk to throw vitriol? He missed,” said another.

  “Probably the idiot paid him first, and he got drunk before the job.”

  “And she can still see, so she can identify him—”

  As Nostradamus’s back receded from them, Nicolas made his heartfelt plea: “Ma Demoiselle, do you see where all this has gotten you? Leave this terrible life, leave that despicable Spaniard—”

  “What Spaniard?” she said.

  “Oh, don’t play the innocent. I know all, but I forgive. But you understand, I cannot with honor pay my addresses to you until I have killed him.”

  “Killed who?”

  “The one who has led you into this dreadful life, the one who debauched your innocent beauty, the odious Señor Alonzo—”

  “Señor Alonzo?” she said. “When you come home with me, I’ll introduce you to him—” How could I have so misjudged him? She was thinking. I thought he was a trailing pest—another fortune hunter. But no, his was real devotion, and he was sent by God to save me, a miracle—and, and—

  All the way to the rue de Cerisée, one word he had spoken resonated in her mind, mingling with the pain, the confusion, the sorrow and shock. It grew bigger and bigger, and it threw an even bigger halo around the tall, dark-haired young man who escorted her, one arm protectively about her shoulder. It hyphenated the sorry “Montvert” with a dozen noble chivalric lines, and made his bony, intense face handsomer than that of Apollo.

  The word was “beauty.”

  ***

  It was almost midnight, and Nostradamus’s candle was burned down nearly flat. Léon was snoring on the trundle bed that pulled out at the foot of the great, canopied bed that stood against the wall. Servants had quit stirring and hustling in and out through the doors of the room, which served also as a corridor in the curious old palace, and even the mice had at last gone to sleep. But the old prophet was still up, doggedly struggling with a horoscope that contained many crossings out and several ink blots representing pure frustration.

  “Still it doesn’t come out, Anael,” he said, consulting a little volume of astronomical calculations. “It’s driving me mad. Look, here is the hour and the birthdate she gave me, six o’clock in the morning on February eleventh, and here is the character and the future, and none of it fits that girl, or what I read in her aura, in the least.”

  “Hmm,” said Anael, folding his arms across his bare chest. “I see what you mean.”

  “You don’t see at all. You’re not even looking,” said Nostradamus.

  “You forget. I don’t have to look in order to see things,” said Anael, sounding superior. The old prophet grunted, and went back to work.

  “Just look at this, just look. According to this, she is a frail, sensitive, poetic girl destined to die two years ago, before she reached her twentieth birthday, in childbirth. And here she’s a great, healthy horse who isn’t even married.”

  “She does, however, consider herself sensitive and poetic.”

  “Her poetry is awful, and as for her sensitiveness—well, she has the skin of a dragon when it comes to pushing herself into places she doesn’t belong. And all the while she carries on about being a tragic, drooping lily, she conceals a sarcastic wit that could grace a comedy on the stage. It’s all pretense, Anael.”

  “Maybe she lied about her birthday. She’s a little sensitive about her age,” observed Anael, in a tone of false helpfulness.

  “No—I know from her aura she was telling the truth, at least this once. She said she checked it with her godmother, just to make sure,” said the prophet, running a hand through his hair until it stood almost upright on one side. Anael chuckled. The prophet rolled back his sleeves so the ink wouldn’t stain them and fussed again with the chart. “It’s almost as if she’s trying to be the person that this horoscope describes,” he muttered to himself. “It just doesn’t make sense.”

  “Perhaps you should sleep on it,” suggested the Angel of History.

  “You know I can’t sleep in this awful bed. The pillow—it’s stuffed with very cheap feathers, not good goose down like my own. It gives me bad dreams. All night, I see riots, death, and the war of brother against brother. I could hardly wish for worse nightmares. If I weren’t waiting for the queen’s payment, I’d have left yesterday—no, before yesterday. I didn’t like the quails at the table yesterday. Tough, bony little things, and the sauce tasted tainted. I’ve been bilious ever since. And these northern cooks just don’t understand the value of garlic.”

  “Just because they don’t chew it raw, like the Béarnais—” But the great Nostradamus had fallen asleep over h
is papers. Anael leaned over his unconscious form and blew out the guttering candle.

  ***

  “—so you see,” Auntie was saying, “although we possess several items from his treasure, the original Señor Alonzo, being an old enemy of my husband’s, is at the bottom of the ocean, but Monsieur Tournet bestowed his name on my darling little creature, here, who was for many years a poor old widow’s only consolation, especially since she had such an arrogant and ungrateful brother. Here, sweetie,” she clucked, as she offered the monkey another piece of candied orange peel. “Just look at his dear little hands, such tiny fingers!” Señor Alonzo scrambled up the curtains to perch on the rod and make one of his horrible grimaces at my brave, heroic rescuer, who was blushing with becoming modesty and trying to excuse himself as he edged toward the door.

  “A monkey,” he was mumbling, “a monkey—and you’re her godmother—I—I have to leave—business—”

  “And just what business is that, Monsieur Montvert?”

  “Ah, um, I have to join my father at four o’clock sharp at the Louvre—an appointment—very important—”

  “Why, it’s nowhere near four o’clock; it isn’t even noon yet, and I’m sure you haven’t eaten.” It is a good thing Auntie had words enough for two, because after all the turmoil, I couldn’t manage to say a thing. My words had just dried up in favor of my sight, blessed sight that he had saved, so that I could the better behold him. And I just couldn’t see enough of him. Why had I never noticed before the charming way he left his shirt unfastened beneath his doublet, the lace trailing carelessly at his neck? Why hadn’t I appreciated his simplicity in shunning a tight, formal ruff, and carefully oiled and combed hair? How could I have failed to notice his arm and delightful brown eyes, at this moment filled with some unspeakable emotion, or his long, aristocratic hands—surely from some elegant descent on the non-Montvert side? Yes, simplicity, insouciance of dress—how they become a truly handsome man, one of noble spirit, such as my rescuer.

  “But—um—I have to change—my clothes, ah, yes—change clothes—” He looked uncomfortably about him. His eye seemed to fix on one of Auntie’s more lurid tapestries, the Judgment of Paris, with three naked goddesses.

  “Oh, your poor sleeve—just look at those terrible holes! Vitriol is wicked, wicked stuff—I’ll have my tailor take your measure and send you an entirely new doublet and shirt, as a token of my gratitude—are you sure you can’t stay to dinner?” Auntie didn’t seem to notice anything amiss at all—with him, with me. How could she not hear the loud thump-thump of my heart in the embarrassed silences of our conversation?

  “Do stay,” I managed to choke out. How delightfully rakish his hat looked, perched over one eye like that. What a delicious angle his jaw made as it rose to meet the cheekbone—was that a beautiful blue vein I saw throbbing at his temple?

  “You—you’d have me, even after—after—Señor Alonzo—I made—such a misjudgment about your reputation?”

  “After what? After you saved me. Saved me from the terrible vengeance of Villasse—”

  “Villasse,” he said, losing his crimson color and straightening up. “I will find him and kill him for this. I will call him out, and destroy him on the field of honor.” A beautiful lightning glance, like a bold eagle, lit up his face.

  “I beg you, Monsieur Montvert, leave him to the king’s justice. His creature will confess everything and you will not have to sully your blade,” said Auntie.

  “That’s the coward’s way,” he mumbled.

  “Monsieur Montvert—in how many affairs of honor have you participated?” asked Auntie.

  “Well—um—none—well, not the formal sort—ah, as yet,” he answered. “But–but I know a great deal—I’ve traveled—the new Italian bottes—”

  “I have known Villasse for half a lifetime—he’s old, but malicious. In his youth, he survived a number of duels, mostly by trickery. Do you know once he secretly oiled a spot on a dueling ground, and drove an opponent across it? No one ever placed the blame on him. He’s as sly as a serpent, that one, and if you’re the one who calls him out, he will demand the choice of weapons—”

  “Still, I can’t in all conscience—”

  “But of course, we can discuss it over the meal. You must be terribly hungry, after all you have done for us, quite without a thought for yourself. Such gallantry! Surely you would not deprive us of your company—”

  “If the demoiselle w-wishes—”

  “Sibille,” I managed to say. “You must call me Sibille—”

  “If Sibille wishes—” Silently, I nodded.

  “Well then, take my darling’s arm, and escort her in, will you? I do believe the hour has come.” All I remember is that I nearly fainted at his touch, and for the life of me, cannot recall a word of the conversation or any of the dishes.

  ***

  “Are you certain this is respectable?” asked the Duchess of Valentinois. She was standing before the fireplace in a handsome antechamber in her lovely, white towered palace at Chenonceaux, the gift of her doting lover, the king, the envy of all who saw it, especially the queen. The marble mantelpiece was ornamented with carved and painted HD’s entwined, for Henry and Diane, the walls were hung with exquisite tapestry, and on a squat, ornate table, rested a silver box, engraved with strange antique symbols and a rooster-headed god in a flying chariot. Outside, the cool, green waters of the Cher rippled beneath the piers of the great gallery, the sky was that divine, chilly blue that can only occur on the most perfect days in autumn, and the leaves of the forest beyond were just beginning to lose their summer green. In the distance, the calling of hunting horns echoed through the woods as her party of guests rode ever farther from the chateau.

  “I assure you,” said Simeoni, a tall, gaunt magician in a shabby black robe, “this Menander was of noble descent, although of his own people. A kingly descent.”

  “Oh, then I’m certain it must be correct. So many of these relics are of nobodies—hanged criminals, dreadful little shopkeepers, beggars of some sort or another. I don’t wish to be revealing my secret desires to some—ugh, peasant, you understand.”

  “Oh, lady, I would never even dream of suggesting such a thing to one of your illustrious ancestry and refinement of taste.”

  “Well then, Master Simeoni, let us proceed. Do I open it up, or does the repetition of the magic words cause it to open by itself?”

  “I will open it, but you must promise not to be shocked.” The duchess nodded her assent, then drew back when she saw the wrinkled, mummified head in the box.

  “Oh, it’s all dried up! How dreadful!” she cried.

  “No more mummified than yourself,” said Menander, opening one of his leathery lids and rolling a hideous, living eye at her.

  “Really, Lord Menander, for decency, perhaps a bit of cucumber cream for those dreadful cheek creases,” said the duchess, her tight little mouth prim. “I am shocked that a person of your standing would let himself go like this.” With a white, manicured finger, she pressed a stray wrinkle from her lushly embroidered oversleeve.

  “Get on with it, you silly woman,” said Menander. “I suppose you want eternal youth.”

  “Certainly not from you,” replied Diane de Poitiers. “Since you hardly have attained a desirable state of preservation of your own complexion. You really should try a bit of my rose oil on those crow’s-feet. You’ve let them get entirely out of hand.”

  “Simeoni, I will revenge myself upon you for this,” said Menander in a low growl.

  “I beg you, Madame, make some allowance for Lord Menander—he is, after all, nearly two thousand years old.”

  “That really is no excuse for such—ugh—poor personal maintenance,” said the king’s mistress, “but still—I suppose—well, he is not French, after all, and therefore can’t really understand refinement—yes, I can understand—”

  “—and you must consider the company he has been in lately,” said Simeoni, thinking desperately of ways to
salvage his fee.

  “Well, then, it is entirely understandable. That dreadful little queen from the foreign pawnbroking family—nouveaux riches like those awful Gondis, that dismal poetess—you are entirely forgiven, Lord Menander, since you have suffered.”

  “I should hope so,” said the mummified head in the box, with an irritated sniff.

  “Very well then. Simeoni, you tell him what I want.”

  “Madame, I cannot do that. You have to recite the magic words yourself, and then speak the wish directly to Prince Menander.”

  “If I must. Let me see—they’re written here. ‘By Agaba, Orthnet, Baal, Agares, Marbas, I adjure thee, Almoazin, Membrots, Sulphae, Salamandrae, open the dark door and heed me.’”

  “Speak your desire,” said the hideous head, in a voice that whispered like the dust in old tombs.

  “I, Diane de Poitiers, Duchess of Valentinois, command and desire you, Lord Menander, to prevent the queen from ever gaining influence over King Henri II of France, no matter what kind of magic she uses.”

  “It is done,” said the head of Menander the Deathless. “Time will show you the truth.” His living eyes glittered evilly, and for effect, he caused a dark cloud to fill the room, and a smallish bolt of lightning to surge through it with a crash. Simeoni fell to the expensive carpet, groveling in fear, but the Duchess of Valentinois tapped her narrow, musk-anointed, silk-shod foot and said:

  “Really, how common. My rose oil, Menander, and avoid vulgar effects. It will bring you a better clientele.”

  “Who do you think you are, talking to me like that? I’m not your hairdresser!” shouted Menander, as he snapped his box shut and faded from the table, leaving a singed place on the varnish just out of spite.

  I had best leave the country for a while, thought Simeoni as he tucked the Duchess’s fee into the old leather purse at his waist. He had heard about the queen’s wishes on the magician’s grapevine, and although he could hardly predict that Sunday would come next week, he had suddenly had a great surge of understanding come upon him, and in that awful moment, had figured out how Menander the Deathless could make both the duchess’s and the queen’s wishes come true at the same time with a single dreadful event. If I’m gone, he thought to himself, they’ll blame someone else. No use ending up like Guaricus, now. Sea air, and maybe that post with the Duke of Urbino. They’ll do old Simeoni good for the next year or two. These French just don’t appreciate a first-class astrologer, anyway. The following week saw him already beyond Orléans, traveling the dusty road to Toulouse and points south, mounted on a heavy-laden old yellow nag and trailed by his servant boy on a donkey.