Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Map
Part One: The Prophecy
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Part Two: The House of Nostradamus
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Part Three: The Castle at Valbonnes
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Part Four: The Nostradamus Prophecy
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chapter Fifty-nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-one
Chapter Sixty-two
Chapter Sixty-three
Chapter Sixty-four
Chapter Sixty-five
Chapter Sixty-six
Chapter Sixty-seven
Chapter Sixty-eight
Chapter Sixty-nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-one
Chapter Seventy-two
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Theresa Breslin
Copyright
About the Book
When the soothsayer Nostradamus warns of a great massacre to take place on the streets Paris, the young King Charles only laughs. But Catherine de’Medici, the king’s mother, believes that Nostradamus can truly see into the future and that her son’s life is in danger.
Into this French Court of tension, plotting, and unrest comes Melchior with his leopard, and Mélisande, the minstrel’s daughter. Nostradamus is certain that Fate links him and Mélisande together, and, as the Angel of Death approaches, he gives into her safekeeping some very special parchments – parchments that the rulers of France would do anything to see . . .
From Carnegie medal-winning author Theresa Breslin, a rich dramatic adventure set in sixteenth century France – a time of assassination, poisons, seers, and the sword.
This book is for Sue Cook editor extraordinaire
PART ONE
THE PROPHECY
The south of France, Spring 1566
Chapter One
‘MURDER!
Murder and foul betrayal!’
The old man with the long white beard trembled as he spoke.
‘Listen to me, I beg you! Blood runs red in the streets of Paris!’
In the great hall of Cherboucy Palace nobles and courtiers pressed forward to hear. The soothsayer reached into the folds of his cloak and drew out a crumpled parchment. He held it aloft and declaimed in a loud voice,
‘With fire and heartless hangings
The treachery of royal line holds sway.
Deeds done by stealth will come to light and all but one consumed
Safe from the sword, saved only by the word.
‘O most vile iniquity!’
His finger stabbed at the paper and his voice rose in a wail.
‘A hundred dead!
‘No! More! Two hundred!’
White flecks of spume gathered at the corners of his mouth.
‘Yet more! And more still! Three! Four! Five hundred! Five times five!’ He moaned and pulled his hair. ‘The bell is pealing. Paris screams in agony.
‘Babies torn from their mother’s breast. Put to the sword, battered and clubbed to death. No one is safe. People try to escape. Look!’ The old man’s eyes started from his head. ‘See them flee! In vain they run. Their bodies pile in the streets, their corpses choke the river. The king’s life is forfeit! Murder most foul!’
From her seat on the raised dais, Catherine de’ Medici, Queen Regent of France, leaned forward listening intently. But her son, the young King Charles, only laughed. ‘Paris is a city most favourable to me. I hold my court in the royal residences there without fear.’
The soothsayer raised both hands above his head. ‘Death is in this very place! Here! Tonight!’ he cried out. ‘I feel its presence near me!’ He looked up in terror at the ceiling rafters. ‘Hark to the beating of wings! Even as I speak, the Angel of Death hovers above our heads!’
A murmur ran through the assembly. All craned their necks upwards. Some gasped, others sniggered behind their hands.
‘Sire, you should pay heed to Nostradamus,’ Catherine de’ Medici hissed at her son. ‘He is no ordinary prophet.’
‘Enough of this.’ King Charles held up his hand for silence. ‘We thank you for your time, soothsayer. Now, you are dismissed.’
It was plain to see that the queen was vexed, for she frowned and bit her lip. But she did not protest, only took out her purse and gave a servant some money to hand to the old man.
Nostradamus regarded the coins contemptuously and then dropped them at his feet. ‘I came here to give you warning,’ he replied with dignity, ‘not for you to give me gold.’
‘Minstrel,’ King Charles called to my father, ‘play me a tune.’ He clapped his hands. ‘A merry tune. And ask your daughters if they would dance a little.’
My father beckoned to my sister and me.
‘Chantelle, Mélisande.’ He put his hands on our heads. ‘I think the king needs a distraction. A madrigal followed by a lively roundel, would you agree?’
My father plucked the strings of his lute and began to sing in a tranquil voice. My sister Chantelle and I shook our finger cymbals in time to the music and waited for the right moment to run into the middle of the floor.
Nostradamus, the soothsayer, stared at the king. ‘You do not listen today,’ his voice boomed out. ‘I tell you, one day you will listen. But it will be too late!’
And, leaving the gold coins where they lay, Nostradamus turned and strode out of the room. He brushed against my sister as he passed. A shudder seized his body. He stopped and looked back. Huge dark eyes under hooded lids.
‘Dance well tonight,’ he said. ‘For you will not ever dance before this king again.’
Chapter Two
WE DID DANCE well that night, my sister Chantelle and I.
Many of the
courtiers stopped their chatter to watch us, for we had newly returned from England where we’d learned the Morelia, the latest dance popular at the court of the English queen, Elizabeth. I took the part of the man, and as we performed the steps, and dipped and swayed, some of the lords and ladies joined us on the floor to copy our movements.
Our money basket soon filled up. My father was the most talented troubadour in Europe and in demand at all the royal courts. King Charles applauded vigorously when we’d finished, but we did not manage to lift the mood of the queen regent. Catherine de’ Medici barely glanced in our direction. She requested permission from her son to withdraw, summoned her ladies to her side and retired for the night.
We were allowed to keep the gold left by the soothsayer. Although Chantelle was older than me and the better dancer, when we counted it later she divided it equally between us. My sister was the kindest that anyone could hope to have. She had reason to want all of the coin for she was secretly engaged and hoped to be married soon, yet she insisted that I take half share.
Before going off to spend some of our earnings on drink and card playing, our father had taken us to our chamber and made sure we were safe inside with the door barred. Even in royal castles under the king’s rule some men, with drink or without it, take advantage of unprotected women.
As Chantelle and I sat down to embroider another section of her bridal gown, I made up a new song and we sang it to each other. My voice was heavy, too low in tone to be considered sweet, and I was not so graceful in the dance. But my fingers were nimble on the mandolin and I loved to compose music and verse. So I picked out a tune and we sang a song of chivalry, of noble deeds and unrequited love. And then we went to bed, Chantelle lulling me to sleep describing the flowers that would adorn our hair on her wedding day.
Of Nostradamus and his dire prophecy we did not think at all.
Towards midnight there was a tap on the outside shutter. Chantelle slid from her bed and walked barefoot to the window. I heard a male voice. It was her betrothed, Armand Vescault on the terrace outside. She knelt up on the window seat and they began a whispered conversation.
I pretended not to hear. I had no anxiety about Armand being there with her, unchaperoned. He would not harm or dishonour her.
It was another man, in the wickedness of his heart, who chose to do that.
Chapter Three
THE NEXT DAY Nostradamus was called to the presence of the queen regent.
He remained in her apartments all day while she conferred with him. Catherine de’ Medici was much given to mysticism and astrology and worried that there was some truth in the prophecy that foretold harm to the king. Nostradamus had travelled especially from his home in Salon to meet up with the court near Carcassonne to deliver his message. The queen regent took him very seriously. She thought that the warning could be a sign sent from on high to protect her son.
‘It’s all nonsense,’ said Chantelle.
We were sitting in the palace gardens tuning our instruments when our father found us to tell us this news. In my lap was my beautiful Italian mandolin whose strings, when plucked, made a sound like falling water.
‘You know that we have met others like Nostradamus before on our travels,’ Chantelle went on. ‘There are dozens of these soothsayers wandering Europe making prophecies of doom at every opportunity.’
‘Nostradamus was very specific,’ I said. ‘He spoke of the Angel of Death. He said he felt its presence.’
‘But there were so many people in the great hall last night,’ Chantelle protested, ‘that one of them is sure to die within a twelvemonth. It will happen anyway, but when it does it will seem as though the soothsayer is proved correct.’
‘You should not dismiss portents so readily,’ said my father. ‘The death of the king’s own father was foretold. He was warned not to take to the field in single combat. On the day he died Queen Catherine herself cautioned her husband against jousting. He thought he was in no danger as the tournament was a mock one, using wooden weapons. But his opponent’s lance broke as it struck his helmet. A long splinter entered his brain through his eye. Nine days later he died in agony.’
‘Armand agrees with me,’ said Chantelle. ‘He says that his own liege lord’s wife is ill near to death, and not expected to live beyond the end of this week. Armand says that when she dies in a few days then all will believe that Nostradamus saw a vision of the Angel of Death.’
‘Does he indeed?’ My father raised an eyebrow. ‘And since I saw this same Armand ride out on an errand with his master early this morning before you rose, it would appear that you must have had this conversation with him after you retired last night, when I left you under a solemn promise not to leave your chamber.’
Chantelle’s face flushed bright pink.
‘Sir—’ she began.
‘Chantelle did not leave our chamber,’ I said at once, anxious to defend my sister. ‘Armand came to the window and they only spoke through the opening for a short while together.’
‘You were awake!’ Chantelle turned to me.
‘I hope that your conversation was such that it was fitting for the ears of your younger sister,’ my father said to Chantelle. ‘She is still a child.’
‘I’m not a child!’ I protested.
‘You are not quite a woman yet, Mélisande,’ my father said. He came and embraced us both. ‘And I’m glad of that, for I would lose you to some gallant as I am about to lose your sister.’
He hugged us and stroked our heads. Then he regarded Chantelle severely. ‘I am not pleased with you,’ he told her. ‘A girl’s reputation is a most precious asset. It is something that you should guard at all times. With more care than you do your speech,’ he added.
‘I am sorry, Father,’ my sister said contritely.
My father sighed. ‘I see that I must make an arrangement for you to be married now. I will speak about this matter to Armand’s master, the Count de Ferignay, this week.’
‘Thank you, Papa!’ Chantelle cried out in joy. ‘Thank you!’
‘I’ll wait until after tomorrow’s hunt. Hopefully it will be successful and the king and his companions will return in good humour.’
The smooth running of the French royal court depended very much on the king’s temper. At fifteen, just two years older than me, King Charles was famed for his petulance and fits of rage. It was said that his mother had smothered, not mothered, him and his outbursts of anger were his way of releasing his tension. Yet, since we had joined the court on its present tour of southern France, it seemed to us Catherine de’ Medici’s main concern was the welfare of her son. I suppose that Chantelle and I, missing our own mother who had died when we were small, saw the queen’s acts as a manifestation of love.
‘I’ll sew the lace on my wedding dress tonight,’ Chantelle whispered to me, ‘and in my night prayers I’ll ask for the huntsmen’s aim to be true.’
Since early boyhood King Charles had loved hunting and this part of the south of France, where the palace of Cherboucy was situated, had many large woods full of deer and boar. The weather was set to be fair and even now the squires and the grooms and the armourers were preparing horses and weapons for tomorrow’s chase. The dogs were being exercised in the yard below the gardens when suddenly they let loose a frenzied yapping and high-pitched howls of alarm.
My father rose from his seat to see what was amiss. Looking from the garden wall, he exclaimed, ‘It’s a leopard! The king will be delighted. He has always wanted to hunt with one of the big cats.’ Then I saw my father’s face become troubled. ‘Yet the bearer of this gift will not be welcomed by everyone here.’
Chantelle and I joined him at the balustrade. An elegant leopard stood in the courtyard. Its pelt was the colour of mellowed ale, studded all over with ink-black spots. Its ears lay flat upon its head as it turned its neck this way and that, gazing around. The hunting dogs were now frantic with fear, straining against their leads. It took all the strength of the kennel lads to p
revent them from bolting. The person handling the leopard was himself not much more than a boy, yet he only loosely gripped the chain attached to the animal’s collar.
Behind the boy, on horseback, was an older man wearing a black hat adorned with neither feather nor plume. His clothes too were of plain black, except for white ruffs at his throat and sleeve edge.
‘His name is Gaspard Coligny,’ my father told us in a quiet voice, ‘admiral in the State Council, one of the most pre-eminent Frenchmen to embrace the new reformed Protestant faith. And a courageous man,’ he added, ‘to venture here unguarded, where the men of the Catholic house of Guise surround the king so closely.’
Suddenly there was the sound of laughter from one of the upper windows. King Charles had appeared and was highly amused at the dogs’ state of terror.
On seeing the king, Admiral Gaspard Coligny removed his hat and called out to him, ‘If it pleases your gracious majesty, your blood cousin, Prince Henri of Navarre, has sent you something to aid you in the hunt.’
‘The leopard?’ the king almost shrieked. ‘This leopard is accustomed to hunt with men?’
‘It is, sire. The leopard, Paladin, and the boy, Melchior, who trains the beast, are both offered to you for tomorrow’s royal hunt with the good wishes of Prince Henri and his mother, the Queen of Navarre.’
In his excitement the king leaned so far out on the windowsill that he nearly toppled over. He called on the leopard-handler.
‘Melchior!’
The boy raised his head and tossed back wild tousled hair. His face had the dark complexion of the southerners, firm brows, and underneath these his eyes were as tawny as those of the great cat chained to his wrist.
‘Bring the animal closer to me!’ the king commanded.
Melchior led the leopard into the centre of the courtyard. They were now directly beneath us and, although he spoke in a low voice, I could clearly hear the boy talking to this magnificent animal. His tongue was not northern French. He used the language of the south. The Languedoc had been my mother’s country, where I had spent my girlhood before setting out on journeys with my father and sister, and I understood his words.
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